City Of Wonders
by J. C. Wright
Summary: The completed tale of Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle's time at Phantasma, as told in their own words.
1. Mr Whittington Meets Miss Fleck

Chapter One

"Mr. Whittington Meets Miss Fleck"

BROOKLYN, 1922.

The last soulful groans of the saxophone faded away like a train receding into the distance, chased away by the tinkling, tinny notes of the piano and the gentle whisper of the cymbals, and when at last the song was over, the patrons of The Gypsy Cafe hooted and clapped their approval, raising glasses and blowing rings of smoke. The band leader, a mellow old black man, took a drink and smiled, his teeth looking white and friendly against the blackness of his beard.

"Well, thank you very much, ladies and gents," he said in his warm, growly voice. "Thanks. This next number is a little somethin' I came up with when me and the band here was sittin' in a diner in Chicago. Ain't very long, but I think you'll like it all right."

More applause, and then the band went into an upbeat number. It was then that Mr. Jay Whittington, followed by one of his friends, entered the cafe and deftly esconced themselves into a booth. A lady took their order-coffee and strudel-and left them to relax and examine their surroundings.

"They have live music, too, hmm?" Mr. Whittington observed approvingly. "You pick 'em well, Mr. Garland."

"Aw, for Pete's sake, Jay, this ain't Europe. Call me Rodger," his companion replied. "We've known each other for almost two days. In America, that practically makes you family."

Mr. Whittington chuckled. "Very well, Rodger. Got a light?"

He did, and before long their booth was filled with smoke and their coats were slung over their seats.

"What a way to unwind after a day like ours, huh?" Rodger stretched and sat back. "Music, companionship, coffee...well, not coffee, that lady ain't back with it yet, but you catch my drift. And tomorrow we'll see if my pictures turned out any good."

"I'm sure they'll be a fine addition. You do excellent work."

"Thanks, thanks. When are you lookin' to have this book released?"

"As soon as I can." Mr. Whittington glanced around the room for the waitress but didn't see her. "I haven't set a precise date. I'll finish it when I finish it."

"Ah, that sort of talk drives me up the wall," laughed Rodger. "You know we reporters are all about deadlines, ha! Speaking of which, my dad's a reporter-used to take pictures at Coney all the time. You know, he might be able to produce some nice shots for you. I'll ask."

"That would be perfect. Tell him I'm most interested in Coney's final season-the 1907 season."

"Gotcha."

At that moment, their conversation was interrupted by applause; another song had ended.

"Thank you, ladies and gents, thank you very much," said the band leader. He got up off his stool and walked into the spotlight. "Now I've got somethin' a little different for y'all now. This song's got a story behind it, so here goes. I was walkin' by where the ol' Coney Island fairgrounds used to be. Band members said it was worth a look, but I don't see how they thought that-place is like one big ashtray now. Ha!"

A moment of laughter, and then the man continued.

"Ha ha, yes. There were some posters around, and I guess that was alright, but all of a sudden I hear this sing-song little voice behind me askin' me what I was doin' there. So I turn around and I see this crazy-lookin' little lady with a crutch and a twisted leg. No idea where the hell she came from; it was like she appeared or somethin'. Couldn't see her face too well on account o' the fact she had this long black veil on. I told her I was lookin' around, an' she started going on about how there wasn't nothin' to see-it was all burned up and gone. That's all she kept sayin'. It was all burned up and gone. Then she sat down and started drinkin', and I got myself out of there."

Rodger laughed, and to Mr. Whittington's confusion, most of the cafe began murmuring and looking knowingly at each other. They seemed to know who this crazy lady was.

"When I got back to the hotel, I told the cat at the desk what I saw, and he busted out laughin' at me. He said I just met the legendary Miss Ariel Fleck. So I says huh? A-E-riel Fleck? Who the hell is that? And he tells me everybody 'round here knows her; she used to be in the freak show at Coney, and after it burned down she just stayed. Simple as that. Decided she wasn't gonna go nowhere. Just stay there. And every day she wanders around gettin' herself tipsy and sleepin' on the sidewalk and pukin' all over the pier. Brooklyn's little sweetheart."

Everyone laughed again, except for Mr. Whittington.

"I went back later and gave her a dollar. She was half-asleep, but she had enough sense left to thank me, and I told her I'd write her a song. She mumbled somethin' I couldn't hear, so I just blessed her in the name of the Lord and went home. That night, I wrote this little melody here. I dedicate this to you, Miss A-E-riel Fleck, you crazy old girl. This is called 'Long Black Veil'."

He motioned to his band, and a folksy, upbeat sort of a ballad rose from the guitars and the piano. Then the old man sang:

_Fifteen years ago, on a calm summer night_

_A fire broke out beneath Coney's lights_

_Her home was destroyed, and she took to the streets_

_It's a cold, cold world_

_For a young circus freak_

He nodded his head and went into the refrain:

_And she walks the pier in a long black ve-e-e-eil_

_Drinks herself blind when the night winds wa-a-a-ail_

_Singin' nobody knows_

_Nobody sees_

_There's nothing left for me-e-e-e. _

It almost seemed absurd that such a cheery-sounding song could have such melancholy lyrics, but the beat was steady, and the cafe smiled and tapped their toes along. Everyone but Mr. Whittington.

_Feathers in her hair, and fists full of beer_

_She walks all alone, and she sheds not a tear_

_But sometimes in the night, when the cold winds moan_

_In a long black veil_

_She cries o'er her home _

And then, once more:

_And she walks the pier in a long black ve-e-e-eil_

_Drinks herself blind when the night winds wa-a-a-ail_

_Singin' nobody knows_

_Nobody sees_

_There's nothing left for me-e-e-e. _

One last strum of the guitar, and the cafe applauded enthusiastically.

"Ha, the ol' Negro sure can write a song!" said Rodger in appreciation. "Fits her just right, too! Say, did our coffee get here yet? No? Hell, I could've grown some and ground it myself in the time we've been...oh, here it comes!"

The waitress apologized for the wait and presented them with the coffee tray and the strudels.

"Very nice! Very nice. Pass the sugar, Jay. Ha, we're having a gay old time, ain't we? I'm glad we came." He stopped when he noticed that Mr. Whittington was not listening. He was still looking at the stage with a strange, almost injured expression on his face.

"Jay? Jay, what's wrong?"

"A freak from Coney," Mr. Whittington said softly.

"Huh?"

"Ariel Fleck. Is that what he said her name was?"

"Yeah, you heard the ol' codger. A-E-riel Fleck. What of it?"

"She lived at Coney. She was there before the fire. And she's still there now..."

Rodger's face split into a grin. "Oh, right, that'd be good for the book, wouldn't it? You could ask her all about it. Probably have to bribe her though. She ain't much of a talker, and when she does it's usually just a bunch of griping."

"You've spoken with her?"

"I gotta pass by her quite a bit," said Rodger with the air of someone describing a bus route. "I usually chuck a nickel or two at her, buy her a beer, stuff like that."

"I see."

Mr. Whittington's mood had suddenly become subdued, almost frail, and this confused Rodger.

"Jay?" he ventured quietly, "What's eatin' you?"

"When we're done here, I want to head over her way and see if we can't talk to her," Mr. Whittington said. He coughed gruffly, and his elegant composure returned. "It would be just the thing for my book."

The street lamps were slowly flickering to life when Mr. Whittington and his companion finally grabbed their coats and headed out into the streets of Brooklyn. Coney Island was not far from here; they could smell the ocean and hear the sea gulls cackling as they went along, pulling their coats tighter around themselves. It was technically spring, if one went by the calendar, but the warmth had yet to arrive. The other people on the street walked along with similar stiffness, pulling down cloches and adjusting scarves.

"And she doesn't have a home?" Mr. Whittington inquired, wondering if she had to endure such cold days as this with no place to warm herself. He'd been asking Rodger similar questions since they'd left.

"Not that I know of," Rodger replied. "During the winter I don't see her as much. I'm guessing some shelter takes in her in once the snow rolls around. Tough lookin' little chick. Fifteen years on the street and she ain't dead. Pretty impressive."

"Any relations?"

"Damn, Jay, you oughta be a reporter too. Ha ha! Oh, alright, alright, I was only ragging. What did you ask again? Never mind, I remember. Relations. Uh, none that I know about. If she had some they'd surely be doing something for her, don't you think?"

But Mr. Whittington had lapsed back into his strange, contemplative silence.

"Jay," Rodger persisted.

"I heard you. I...well, I suppose she must not have anybody then. You're right."

After that they walked in silence. Rodger led the way, bewildered by his friend's bizarre change of behavior over some homeless woman but relieved that he was no longer asking questions. Mr. Whittington, following behind, peered into alleyways and over fences, trying to determine how close they were to the sea. The temperature was far from pleasant.

"Okay, we're almost there," Rodger finally said. "Now, I can't guarantee for certain she'll be here, but she usually is."

To their right, the ground was gradually dissolving into sand, and now they could see and hear the gray, lapping waves of the Atlantic ocean, perpetually hissing and charging forward onto the shore. To their left a long wooden fence stretched out a long way, covered in faded old posters. When Mr. Whittington peeked through a broken board, he was presented with the vast, windswept old plot where Coney Island, America's Playground, had once stood, drenched in light, glistening and glimmering like a fairytale, a slice of heaven rising by the sea, where freaks and music and elephants and dreams ran wild.

Now it was completely gone. There was nothing left, nothing but the ghostly faded advertisments cheerfully announcing the arrival of so-and-so the actor or advertising a show. Had no one told them Coney was gone? Mr. Whittington felt as though he were walking through a mausoleum.

"Cheerful joint, huh?" chuckled Rodger with a brightness that was almost irreverent. "Get a load of those old advertisements. Notice something special about 'em?"

Mr. Whittington contemplated them, reading the old captions: _3-Foot Man! Girl with two heads-must be seen to be believed! Phantasma, city of wonders! The honorable Mr. Y. presents marvels, astonishments, human prodigies! The Ooh-La-La Girl, 5 shows daily! Christine Daae, soprano of the century!_

"Figure it out yet?"

He hadn't.

"Then I'll tell you." Rodger grinned. "All the eyes are scraped out of all the faces."

Mr. Whittington spun around to the wall again. It was true. The eyes were all gone! Suddenly he was looking upon a whole ghostly crowd of hollow, eyeless, antiquated people of yore, frozen and blind in their faded old world. "Who did this?" he asked breathlessly.

"Who do you think?"

He looked into the face of Christine Daae where she smiled pleasantly out from her poster, her eyes empty sockets...

"Hey!" Rodger whispered urgently. "Hey! Jay! There she is. There's ol' Ariel."

About a stone's throw away Mr. Whittington could see what appeared to be a pile of rags huddled against the fence.

"Can't tell if she's asleep or not. Let's get closer. Arieeeel," crooned Rodger fondly, as though he were calling a beloved dog. "Arieeeel dear, are you awake?"

The pile of rags moved with a grunt, which sent some bottles clattering onto their sides.

"Uh huh. She's up. C'mere and meet her."

Mr. Whittington walked over, knelt down, and was immediately saddened by the deplorable state of the filthy, drunken woman slumped in front of him.

Miss Ariel Fleck had a face like a broken old Victorian doll, pale and round, with dark circles around her closed eyes, and on her head was a cloche with a stringy old feather that concealed almost all of her little black bob. Under her oversized overcoat, he could see a flimsy old skirt that exposed her little calves and ankles. One leg was substantially thinner than the other and bent at an unnatural angle. Her black stockings were riddled with holes, her shoes were scuffed beyond hope of repair, and in her hands was a long black veil, just as the old man had said. She was surrounded by empty beer bottles and a crutch.

"Arieeeel," Rodger went on cheerfully. "Meet a friend of mine, dearie. He's never seen Coney before."

One of Miss Fleck's eyes snapped open, followed slowly by the other, and her sad, dreamy eyes focused on Mr. Whittington, who could only look speechlessly back.

"Coney Isle," she mumbled in a sad, sing-song voice, and the with her breath came the strong stench of alcohol. "There's nothing left. Nothing to see. All burned up and gone. Gone, s' all burned mmmph n' gone."

"So I've heard," replied Rodger in that obscenely jolly tone. "Well, I've got a friend here who'd like to hear all about ol' Coney. He's writing a book about it. This is Mr. Whittington, Ariel."

"Hello, Miss Fleck," Mr. Whittington eventually managed to say, but she just stared at him, blankly, no sadness, joy, or anything in the dark green ocean of her eyes.

"You goin' to bed now, Ariel? Sleepy?" Rodger asked.

She neither moved nor spoke. She only stared.

"You goin' to bed?" Rodger repeated.

She blinked hard and slumped over onto the pavement, knocking more bottles over, and made no move to sit back up. It seemed that she did want to go to sleep.

"Alrighty then, we won't pester you any further tonight. Maybe we'll pop by tomorrow, okay, cutie?"

No response.

"It's a date then. Goodnight." Rodger stood back up and turned to his companion. "C'mon Jay, let's get the hell out of here. I'm freezing."

Mr. Whittington was still for a moment, and then suddenly he pulled off his white scarf. He knelt down and gently wound it around Miss Fleck's exposed neck. She didn't move, but looked at him.

"I'll come back tomorrow at around noon, Miss Fleck," Mr. Whittington told her, slowly and clearly. "And I'll bring along a sandwich and some pop for you. That would be alright, wouldn't it?"

She kept on staring at him and made an unintelligible sound in her throat that sounded like an affirmative.

"Very well, then." Mr. Whittington rose. "I'll be back tomorrow. Oh, and you needn't return that scarf...you can have it. Goodbye." He decided that 'goodnight' was a rather cruel thing to say to someone sleeping on a sidewalk, and with that, he and Rodger headed back the way they came.

Without his scarf, Mr. Whittington began to develop a headache from the cold, and so the two men scraped together some change and hailed a taxi.

"You shouldn't have done that, Jay," sighed Rodger as they settled into their seats. "Nickels are one thing, but now she knows you're the type of guy who pays it forward, and you can bet she's gonna milk that for all it's worth. Oh, I know she looked pretty quiet and cracked up, but when she's sober, she's... kind of a bitch. Chucked a rock at me once, she did." At his friend's silence, he continued, "Plus, that was a swell scarf."

"I can get another," Mr. Whittington replied. He looked out the window, watching Brooklyn fly past him in a blur of smoke and lights. "When are you going to speak with your father?"

"Next chance I get. Probably Tuesday. You really goin' to see ol' Ariel tomorrow?"

"Why wouldn't I? I promised."

"Chances are she didn't hear you anyway. You could get away with it."

"Even so, I ought to."

"Have it your way, then." Rodger slapped his shoulder good-naturedly. "But when she takes you to the cleaners, don't come cryin' to me. Hopefully you'll make the money back in royalties."

"Mmm."

He was silent for the rest of the ride, except to wish Rodger a good evening when they arrived at his apartment and inform him that he would be at the library from nine to noon; after that he was headed over to see Miss Fleck. He could show him the developed photographs at dinner that evening. A shaking of hands, a vigorous Brooklyn farewell, and then Mr. Whittington headed into his rented abode.

It was the sort of dwelling typical of a young bachelor on holiday: minimally decorated, relatively tidy, and filled with practical things such as typewriters, umbrellas, books, and ink pens. There was a serviceable old couch next to the window that often served as an impromptu bed for a feverishly typing, coffee-crazed Mr. Whittington, but tonight his thoughts were too deep for writing. As he let himself sink into the faded red cushions, his mind kept wandering back to the old man's words:

_And he tells me everybody 'round here knows her; she used to be in the freak show at Coney, and after it burned down she just stayed. Simple as that. Decided she wasn't gonna go nowhere. Just stay there._

Mr. Whittington was not a man unaquainted with grief. He understood the pain of having one's course in life suddenly derailed by tragedy, but fifteen years of sleeping on a boardwalk? Sure, her leg was in bad shape, but he'd seen worse-looking women doing all sorts of odd jobs. What on earth was inducing her to stay there? For the first time in quite a while, Mr. Whittington was consumed by something other than his book-in-progress, and he continued in this frame of mind until, finally, he rolled over and went to sleep.

Meanwhile, on the pier overlooking the sea, Miss Fleck slept soundly through the bitter cold, surrounded by her menagerie of hollow-eyed guardians and her cache of beer bottles, her face nestled in the warmth of his white scarf.

**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading my humble story. I can't believe you got past the crap summary. Now for a few notes you should take note of!

1. Everybody who leaves me a review gets a link to a Trio-related illustration (I'm an _artiste_) of some sort as a thank you. Aren't I manipulative? It may or may not have something to do with the chapter. Depends on my mood. This chapter's picture is Miss Fleck holding a dove. Steal it. Download it. Plagarize it all over the net.

2. This story was written back in April, and is based off of the original stage directions. That's why Fleck is alone. At the time, she was. Nowadays that's no longer true, and the other two freaks are with her in the beginning. The story is set in stone now. If tomorrow they re-write the LND script to make Miss Fleck a weed-smoking vacuum salesperson in a yellow submarine, I'm NOT changing my story.

3. The characters' names, familial relationships to each other, and pre-Phantasma ailments are based on what the actors themselves have said. All other details are my own. (FUN FACT: Before I discovered that Miss Fleck's name was Ariel, I was planning on naming her Frances Lavinia Fleck. So now those are her two middle names.)

4. This story is a seperate entity from "Freaks Never Die". What happens to the Trio in that story has no effect on what happens to them here, unless I say so.

5. My chapters usually run long. Next chapter starts the story-within-a-story narration, and they'll get substantially longer.

6. That "Long Black Veil" Song ain't mine. I just thought it would fit, and screwed up the lyrics to fit the situation. Don't sue me.

7. Updates will be once a week. If something goes terribly wrong with my ancient PC, I will inform you.


	2. Miss Fleck Begins Her Story

Chapter Two

"Miss Fleck Begins Her Story"

The noon-day sun found Mr. Whittington striding purposefully down the street with a brown paper bag that contained a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Coca-Cola. The owner of the delicatessan had assured him that mellow-flavored turkey was the best choice when one didn't know someone's tastes; as for the Coca-Cola, he figured he couldn't go wrong with the old standard. Feeling encouraged by his early-morning success at the library, Mr. Whittington was confident that he would surely succeed in securing quite a story from Miss Fleck, and in turn his book would be all the more enriched. Even the weather seemed to support his endeavors; the refreshing, salty breeze and the laughing of the seagulls filled him with vigor. What a fine day! He could see the beginning of the boardwalk in the distance. He just had to cross the street.

_Screeeeeeeeech!_

The sudden scream of tires skidding froze his blood. As he leapt back, dropping his bag, a car went swerving wildly around someone, tore past him, and came to an abrupt halt. He coughed from the stench of scraped tires as the shaken, wide-eyed passengers spun around and looked out their windows.

"Damn it!" the driver yelled furiously, sticking his head out. "Damn it, Ariel, you dumb cooze! You got a death wish or something? Keep your drunken ass out of the road!" And with that, he threw the gears back into drive and the car lurched off like an injured beast.

Alarmed, Mr. Whittington ran down the street to where Miss Fleck lay stunned on the pavement, her little cap and veil askew and her crutch knocked over nearby. The car had just missed her, but the screeching of the brakes had frightened her and made her fall, and now, as best as he could, he helped her up and sat her down on the sidewalk.

"Are you alright, Miss Fleck?" he asked her. "Anything hurt?"

She was unharmed but terribly upset. Mr. Whittington quickly retrieved his dropped bag and dug out the Coca-Cola, coaxing it up to her trembling lips.

"Go on, old girl, you're alright," he said, slapping her back. "The worst is over. Have some cola."

She sipped some, and after Mr. Whittington could see the color returning to her cheeks, he handed her the bottle and went into the street again. She watched him as she sipped. When he returned with her crutch and her grocery bag of possessions, she smiled cautiously. "Thank you."

"There, now she's sensible again!" said Mr. Whittington kindly, sitting down beside her. "What happened?"

Miss Fleck gestured to her bad leg. "It's this leg here," she mourned in that eerie sing-song voice. "Even when I have this crutch it drags along. I got the bottom of the crutch stuck in a crack over there-" She pointed, and Mr. Whittington could see the big fissure in the pavement-"And I fell over into the street. I was just pulling myself back up when that fella in the car came screaming past me. Scared the hell out of me. I thought I was dead."

"So did I, for a minute." confessed Mr. Whittington, and then he remembered himself and exended his hand. "My name is Whittington. Jay Whittington. We met last night, remember?"

She shook his hand clumsily, as though she'd forgotten how, blinking in confusion. "We did? I don't remember meeting anybody. But I woke up with an awfully nice scarf around my neck. Did you do that?"

"Yes, I did."

She leaned forward and gave his jacket a deep sniff. "You certainly did. I can tell. You and the scarf smell the same. Clean. Like laundry soap. Thank you. Too bad it'll smell like me soon. Did I tell you my name?"

"I already know your name, Miss Ariel Fleck."

"You most certainly do not. Not my whole name, anyhow. My name," she announced with dignity, "Is Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck."

"Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck," repeated Mr. Whittington with an impressed smile, and then he added, without thinking, "That's quite a name to live up to, isn't it?"

Miss Fleck looked at the crumpled grocery bag in her lap. Her eyes grew sad.

"No, no!" he groaned, ashamed of himself. "No, please, I didn't mean to suggest..."

"It doesn't matter." She shrugged and drew her long black veil back over her face. "It was good of you to help me, Mr. Whittington. I'd better get back home, and you'd better get back to your business. You'll be late."

"I haven't any business," he assured her. "Well, not any business I can possibly be late for. I'm on vacation. Please, let me walk you back."

She consented, fearing another fall, and together they headed across the street, around the corner, and onto the boardwalk. The beginning of the boardwalk was still relatively prosperous; vendors and merchants of all sorts had little booths, and people milled lazily about, smoking, drinking, yelling after children, and eating hot dogs. Today there was a crowd watching some skiffs sailing in the bay, admiring the way the sails looked like white birds on the blueness of the sea.

"A vacation," said Miss Fleck dreamily as she strolled along on Mr. Whittington's arm, unaware of the way people were staring at her. "What's a vacation like?"

"Well, you don't do any work," replied Mr. Whittington. "That's foremost. You also must meander about in whatever clothes you like and do whatever you please, and if anyone asks you what you are doing, you tell them that you are on vacation and are having a splendid time. And then you do."

Miss Fleck was thoughtful for a moment. "That's very nearly what I do," she commented, "Only when folks ask me what I'm doing, I tell them to shove it. Especially when it's those reporters harping on me about what I'm doing at Coney, what I used to do there, all that sort of thing. Fifteen years and they're still trying to make a buck off of me. None of their damn business, I always tell them!"

"I see," laughed Mr. Whittington uncomfortably as they passed the last vendor and headed towards the dingy part of the boardwalk. "Say, Miss Fleck, did you know that they were singing a song about you at the Gypsy Cafe last night?"

"A song? Wait, was it an old black fella?"

"Yes."

Miss Fleck chortled in amusement. "So he really did write a song about me. Huh! I didn't think he'd do it. How did it go?"

"The melody was quite upbeat, but the lyrics were depressing," said Mr. Whittington honestly. "I don't quite remember, but it involved you wearing a black veil and weeping while wandering around the pier."

"Well, I was hardly expecting a feel-good Broadway number," admitted Miss Fleck in resignation. "Or royalties, for that matter. Oh well."

Ahead of them was the long fence with the eyeless advertisements. The cheery sound of the crowd faded away and was replaced by the grim crash of the waves. Even in the daytime the place felt desolate.

"Home sweet fence," sighed Miss Fleck as she leaned against the weathered old fence and let herself sink onto the ground. She removed her veil, stretched, and examined a hole in her shoe.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Whittington.

Miss Fleck kept working on the shoe. "Sorry? What for?"

"Sorry that your home is a fence."

"Well, don't be sorry," she replied, putting a piece of paper over the hole and trying to get it to stick. "I'm right where I belong. Say, have you got any gum?"

"No," he said. "But I do have a turkey sandwich for you."

She immediately forgot the shoe and looked up, her eyes shining hungrily. "You do?"

He did, and when he gave it to her she devoured it. She kept on eating and eating until even the crust and crumbs were gone, and when she swallowed the last morsel, she leaned back against the fence with an enraptured, satisfied smile, wiping her hands on her dirty overcoat.

"God bless you. I never had anything so good as that sandwich," she told him, punctuating her words with a burp, but then a sudden thought made her stop and frown. She looked up at him warily. "Why are you doing all these things for me?"

"Because I want to."

"Don't lie to me, son," she said seriously. "First you give me a scarf, then soda, then you walk me around and make small talk with me, and now you're giving me sandwiches. You want something from me."

"Well," Mr. Whittington began awkwardly, unsure of how to go about wording what he wanted. "I was hoping you would-"

"No!" Miss Fleck interrupted sharply, her fine little features suddenly severe. "No, indeed I won't!"

"What?"

"I may be a bum who's hard up for money, but I'm an honorable bum," she informed him. "And no matter what you offer to feed me,_ I refuse to make love with you." _

"What?" cried Mr. Whittington. "No! No, that's not what I meant at all! Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because it's happened before," came the grim reply. "These dandies come along thinking ol' Miss Fleck is a desperate loony who'll throw her legs open for a five-cent hot dog-er, sorry, that came out wrong-but you know what I mean! I won't stand for it, though. No, I'd sooner starve."

"You needn't worry about that from me," Mr. Whittington assured her. "What I was hoping for...well, the thing is, I'm writing something..."

"Ha!" laughed Miss Fleck bitterly. "Ha, I knew it all the time. You're one of those reporters. I knew it! How much are they offering you to get a story out of me?"

Mr. Whittington had been fearing this reaction. "They're not," he said meekly. "I don't work for a paper. I've got this book I'm writing..."

"A book!" she snorted. "As if I want my sad life immortalized in a book. Next thing you know, it's a radio drama, and then it's a movie and Theda Bara's playing me." She stumbled to her feet, grabbed her crutch, and started limping away. "No sir! No thanks! Good day to you!"

"It doesn't have to be about your life," insisted Mr. Whittington desperately, hustling after her. "It's Coney itself I'm interested in, particularly the Phantasma sideshow, and I know you used to work there."

She kept on going, a little faster, her mind made up. "Go away."

"I'll compensate you generously," he offered hopefully.

Her pace did not slacken. "Go away."

"But...!"

"I told you to go away."

"Listen, I just..."

Miss Fleck spun around, enraged, fists clenched and eyes flashing. "If you don't get away from me," she hissed dangerously, "This crutch _will_ go up your ass."

Hostile green eyes stared into dismayed blue ones for a long moment, and then Mr. Whittington looked down in defeat.

"Alright," he sighed. "Alright. You don't have to attack me, I won't bother you. But you must understand that all I wanted to do was find a few answers. You see, I've been researching the life and work of the fellow who owned Phantasma, that "Mr. Y" character..."

The effect of those words on Miss Fleck was astonishing. Her face softened. Her eyes watered. She shuddered as though some unknown breeze was chilling her, yet at the same time her cheeks were visibly flushing. Mr. Whittington could not determine whether it was pleasure or pain.

"Mr. Y?" she breathed. She stumbled forward and grabbed his arm. "You...you know about Mr. Y? Now? Where he is?"

"I knew him briefly, in England, before and during the war," replied Mr. Whittington, flinching a bit. Her grip was tight. "Until 1916, when he...well...it was a real shame."

Miss Fleck's eyes widened. "What was a shame?"

"What happened to him." Mr. Whittington looked away sadly. "It was an air-strike. I was down in the village when the planes came roaring through and started bombing. I got myself into a ditch under a bridge until I didn't hear any more explosions, and then I ran to where he was staying, and... well, the whole place was blown to bits. Found his body a week later under all the rubble. Still had his mask on when we pulled him out. We never found that boy who hung around with him, Gustave."

"So he's... they're...dead?" Miss Fleck asked feebly, her grip loosening.

Mr. Whittington bowed his head. "Yes."

Somewhere in the distance a seagull chattered, and some people called out to a passing ship, and for a few moments Mr. Whittington and Miss Fleck stood in silence, the former regretting the revelation and the latter completely devastated by it. She pressed her fingers to her lips and sunk to the ground, her poor little face trembling.

Mr. Whittington had not expected her to take it this badly. "I'm sorry," he said gently, reaching out to touch her.

"Dead," she mewed, her eyes beginning to overflow with tears. "Mr. Y, dead. God help me. God help me!"

Shocked and saddened at how heartbroken his news had made her, Mr. Whittington pulled her into his arms and let her cry into his jacket. He sat there stroking her hair and murmuring usless words of comfort for what felt like an hour until, finally, she took a shaking breath and calmed down.

"Dead," she moaned, her voice hoarse from weeping. "Mr. Y and Gustave, dead. Oh, how will I ever tell Gregory?" She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Mr. Whittington gave her his handkerchief to use instead. "Gregory?"

"He's someone who used to work there with me," she explained, dabbing her eyes. "Dr. Gangle was his nickname. He's in jail now. I was visiting him today; that's where I was coming from when I almost got hit. He was the master of ceremonies at Phantas..." Her voice broke.

"It's alright." Mr. Whittington patted her back. "If it will make you feel any better, Mr. Y thought very highly of you."

Tears sprung to Miss Fleck's eyes again, but her face brightened. "Oh, did he? Really?"

"Yes. I remember him sitting at the piano, rifling through his sheet music, and he'd turn to me and say how he wished Miss Fleck was there. Said you'd keep the place as clean as a whistle."

She chuckled and wiped her eyes.

"That wasn't the only time, though. I remember another time we were eating, and he looked out the window and told me he wished he could have some of that Greek honey-tasting stuff that Miss Fleck cooked for him once. That was a week before the air strike."

"I remember that! It was baklava!" she cried. "Oh, I can't believe he remembered that after so many years."

"He remembered a lot about his old Phantasma sideshow," Mr. Whittington said. "Told me how sorry he was, how he really regretted...how it all ended up."

"He said that?"

"Mmm-hmm! From what I gathered there were thirteen of you, but only twelve bodies because-"

"Because one of us was Aggie-Ann, the conjoined twins!" Miss Fleck finished with a smile that made her sickly face beautiful. "Oh, Mr. Whittington, I... you can't understand. The last time I talked with someone about Phantasma-other than Gangle, of course-was years ago, when Madame Giry came back."

"Madame Giry?"

"One of his investors." Her face darkened a bit. "She and her daughter, Meg...it's a long story."

"I'll bet."

They sat quietly for a minute, watching the sea, and then Miss Fleck said, softly, "I hope Mr. Y and Gustave are at peace now. I'll pray for them."

"Ah, she's religious, is she?" Mr. Whittington asked lightly.

She shrugged, and then she grabbed his arm again. "Mr. Whittington," she said seriously. "I'm sorry for threatening to shove my crutch up your ass. You're a good man. Any friend of Mr. Y is a friend of mine."

He chuckled. "I forgive you. So we're friends now?"

She nodded, her hands still on his arm. "And since we're friends, I want to tell you all about Phantasma."

"You do?"

"I do."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "Well, I'll be glad to listen."

"When I'm finished telling you, will you tell me more about Mr. Y?"

He promised that he would.

Miss Fleck got to her feet and pushed a board of the fence aside, beckoning for him to follow. "Come inside with me."

They squeezed through the fence and found themselves on the barren old field on which the Coney Island fairgrounds-and Phantasma-had been fifteen years ago. Now it was the haunt of seagulls, a solemn sort of place that still seemed to exude a sense of majesty, a plot of land mourning its past.

Mr. Whittington had his handkerchief ready just in case the recollection of her past became too painful for Miss Fleck, but the opposite proved true. As she looked across what had once been her home, a serene smile, completely free of bitterness, illuminated her little face. She gently grabbed Mr. Whittington's arm again. He could see the memories coming to life again in her eyes, playing like a film without sound.

"There's nothing left now," she said, her musical voice soft and tender. "Nothing but ghosts, and me, and my memories. But I still see everything."

She looked up, remembering the brilliant lights and mechanical tunes of the Ferris wheel, and slowly, it all came back to her. She saw the serpentine sillohuette of the roller coaster, smelled the grease and sugar, saw the ladies laughing at each other in their big hats and Gibson girl dresses. Just down the mainstreet would be the turn-she'd pass the animal menagerie and throw a cookie at the llama-and then there was a building covered in paintings and slogans: ASTLEY'S ASTONISHMENTS! FREAKS AND HUMAN ODDITIES, FIVE CENTS ADMISSION. People were congregating around it, fumbling with change purses.

"I still see everything," Miss Fleck repeated where she stood, frail and sickly, her memories so powerful that they were nearly tangible. "But before Phantasma and Mr. Y, this was my home, a dingy old sideshow called Astley's Astonishments, and it only makes sense to start my story from the beginning."

Within that firmament of freaks, she could faintly hear the irritated grunt of a beloved old father. The scorched grass crunched beneath her feet. The wind filled her nostrils with the smell of dust and hay, and as the sun warmed her hands, the dream was complete. This was the first day of June, 1906.

**(**_**Miss Fleck begins her story.)**_

June 1, 1906

My father, myself, and the rest of our fellow freaks were all ready and seated on the blankets in our cages when our boss, Mr. Astley, pushed open the doors and strode in, his shirt damp with sweat and his face flushed. With him came a hot breeze that smelled like burnt hot dogs and raised the room's temperature about thirty degrees. We moaned. As he quickly shut the doors behind him, the cigar smoke curling about his face made me imagine that he was an evil dragon, retreating into his lair, and we were his sweaty, malformed minions.

"Ninety-somethin' damn degrees," he puffed, fanning himself with a handbill. "They're sayin' that today's goin' on record as the hottest opening day we've ever had."

Nobody needed to tell us that. We'd figured it out for ourselves that morning. We'd all made a special effort to look good for opening day, starching shirts and dresses and combing our hair all nice, and when we were done we grinned proudly at each other. Even if we were freaks, we still looked like a million bucks. We'd show those people who thought freaks were dirty, unkempt boogey-monsters what was what!

Then we opened the dressing room door. I thought I'd died and gone to Hell. I knew I should've read the Bible more often. Off we courageous, smartly-dressed freaks marched into that blazing heat, fanning ourselves in the vain hope that we could still get to Astley's looking somewhat presentable, but about halfway through our trek, when our clothes began clinging to us like wet tissue paper, we abandoned all such hope. We staggered into that place like dying racehorses. In my feverish imagination, I wondered what an announcer might say if this had really been a horse-race. I'll tell you what I thought, and this will serve to introduce me and my fellow freaks.

Here they come, folks! It's a close one, a real photo finish! Who's it gonna be? Who...? Yes! Yes! First to cross the finish line is the stunning (and sweaty) _Miss Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck_, and the only thing more impressive than her name is the fact that she's been racing with a cruch! Yes siree! Our little winner has a leg that bends in the opposite direction, as though it got put on backwards. I guess that's why they call her "The Half-Bird, Half-Woman!"

In second place is the winner's father, _Mr. Alfred Fleck!_ Look at that determination, folks! Look at those tattoos! Look at the resolve in his eyes as he wearily drags himself across the finish line! Nearly won, but let's give him a break. After all, with a spine as deformed as his, it's all he can do to crawl about on all fours!

And here comes our third place winner, wringing the sweat from her beard! Yes, you heard that right! It's a woman with a beard, the aptly-named _Edna Beardsley! _ In fourth position, shaking his fists at the sun, is _Gilbert Geddes_, but at a mere three feet, it's gonna take this fella more than a few phone books if he wants to get that high! And in fifth, it's _Della Caine_, using one hand to wipe her face, one to smooth her dress, and another to pull a hair from her mouth. Three arms, ladies and gents! What a peach! And in sixth, it's _Muriel Pritchard_, sweating hard enough to wash her tattoos clean off! Last but not least, in seventh place (and at seven feet high) is _Thomas Taylor_, looking a bit faint! Tiiiiimber!

Anyway, we dragged ourselves to our places and collapsed on the blankets and hay, smelling like barnyard animals. We soothed ourselves with the thought that there was always next year.

"So," said Mr. Astley, and I was dragged back to the present, "I'm thinking folks will be spendin' their nickels on ice cream, and not a freak show. Bad for business, this heat. When they actually do come around, make it worth their time. I'm outta here. Gotta see if that shaved ice stand is open. Park opens in ten minutes."

As he swept back out into the heat, we looked at each other in despair. Shaved ice!

"Huh," grunted my father. He lay curled up like a Saint Bernard. The best way I can describe his body is like this: imagine God drawing the letter C, sketching a whole body around that shape, covering it with black, serpentine tattoos, and then blowing the breath of life into it. That was my father. "The park's not even open yet," he complained in his gentle but growly voice, "and I've already reached the point where I'd kill a man for a shaved ice. This heat is absolutely _unreasonable." _

"We'll get some at lunch," someone wheezed weakly.

On a day as hot as this, that was like saying we'd get some in twenty years. I decided to spend the last few minutes of preparation time trying to wave some life back into my limp serge skirt. Woosh! Woosh! Woosh!

"Do it towards me," groaned my father, so I did. Woosh! said my skirt as I sent my father a sweaty starch-scented breeze. Woosh! Woosh!

The door made a similar sound as our friend, Mr. Gregory De Rossi, walked in, a scorching breeze hot on his heels. He was from another freak-show within Coney Island. We all called out a pathetic but cheerful greeting, (I dropping my skirts) and he coughed in return. Whenever he really wanted to express himself strongly he coughed, for he could not speak at all. I liked him. He was from Italy, and had a nondescript, pleasantly ugly sort of countenance, with kind eyes and a wonderful smile. His throat was covered with ragged scars. We wondered if some sort of injury had ruined his voice, but asking him questions like that really upset him, so we stuck to speculation. Anyhow, there he was, with a letter in his hand.

"Buongiorno, Signor De Rossi!" I called to him, and he grinned. He absolutely loved being spoken to in Italian. Me and him were real chums. "Is that a letter from Mr. Y?"

It was. He pushed it through the bars and we all gathered around. Mr. Y was from the same freak-show as Mr. De Rossi. They'd come together on the same ship from Europe nine years ago, but unlike his companion Mr. Y kept a polite distance, inquiring after us civilly but never seeming to want to be close friends. When he was not performing, he wore a white mask over the disfigured side of his face, and he made a point to dress smartly. He seemed real interested in us freaks. He always sent letters-always marvelously written with long words and lofty adjectives-asking about how we were doing and the things we enjoyed, and every once in a while we'd get gifts. So, as you can imagine, we all liked Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi.

Today's letter said:

_Greetings to the ladies and gentle-freaks of Astley's Astonishments! I perused your last letter with great interest, and I am particularly pleased with the coupons you gave me. Thank you. You mentioned that Mr. Astley vetoed the notion of Miss Fleck doing aerial acrobatics in the style of her mother (God rest her soul) this season, the excuse being that "people go to freakshows to see freaks, not legitimate performers", and frankly, I was appalled, not only by his maddening underestimation of Miss Fleck's talent, but at his assumption that none of you are "legitimate performers". It is apparent to me, as it ought to be to anyone with a scrap of intelligence, that you all have very marketable talents. If Mr. Astley has any intentions of survival in this industry (and judging by his downgrading, I do not believe he does), he must understand that these are modern times. The age of the freakshow is waning. People are no longer satisfied to spend their nickels on mediocrity. _

_That said, do not expect to remain as you are. I am pleased to announce that I am now in a ensure that your talents-your true talents-will be perfected, and be something to marvel at, something I have been desiring greatly for nine years. Tonight all will be made clear. Muddle through this wretchedly hot day with joy, for it will be the last you will endure as mere oddities._

_Sincerely, Mr. Y. _

"The last night we will endure as mere oddities," my father repeated, the tattoos on his forehead wrinkling. "Tonight all will be made clear. What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

We couldn't make head nor tail of that letter, and for a while we sat there in amazement. Was Mr. Y going to come and give Mr. Astley a piece of his mind or something? Why did he have to wait nine years to do it? We looked to Mr. De Rossi for an explanation, but he drew a finger to his lips and smiled wickedly. He knew, but he would not (and in all fairness, could not) tell us. Gesturing to his watch, he indicated that it was eight o' clock. The park was officially open, and now he must hurry back to the sideshow where he and Mr. Y lived.

"Arrivederci!" I called after him, and before he exited he flashed me another grin and mouthed, _Arrivederci, Signorina! _ Then he was gone.

"Damn Italian!" wheezed Mr. Geddes. "Now I'm gonna be sittin' in suspense all damn day!"

Our wonderment was cut short by Mr. Astley, who came sweeping in so abruptly that we jumped. "Park's open!" he said, his nickel-box under his arm. His tongue was blue from eating shaved ice. "And we've got folks headed this way. Look lively!"

I could hear the music and rumbling of the crowd outside. We stuffed the letter under someone's blanket, made one last attempt to tidy ourselves. and then our first customers of the day poked their heads cautiously around the door. We straightened up. It was a lady and her son, followed by a nursemaid. The lady's hat made me drool: lavender with big white flowers all around the brim. It looked grand atop her big brown updo. I self-conciously licked my palm and smoothed my frazzled hair. He was in one of those sailor-suits that were supposed to be so sporty. He came running right over to us, his eyes as big as dinner plates, a red shaved ice melting like blood all over his hands. As I had done for years, I raised my skirts to show him how my leg bent backwards.

"Look, mother, look!" he cried, and the mother looked at my exposed leg with a nervous smile. "Her leg's backwards! It says here that her name is Miz Fleck. Does that hurt you, Miz Fleck?"

"Not at all," I replied. "Because that's the way I was born."

Other people were beginning to walk in when they finally left, but before they did-and before his mother could protest- the little kid gave me the sticky, melting remnants of his red shaved ice.

"Bye! You're funny!" he said, and off he went, back into Coney.

Of all the things he could've said, he called me funny. It was a pleasant change. I gratefully drank the cool, cherry-flavored sludge as my fellow freaks groaned in jealousy, and when I tossed the cup aside, a different sort of customer was leering at me. Up went my skirts again, but this time I didn't get a cry of admiration. Not an innocent one, anyway.

"Mmm-hmm!" the fellow said, nodding, then he tapped the bars and offered, insolently, "I've got a dime here for you if you raise your skirt a bit higher."

My face flushed, but I knew how to deal with questions like that. "daddy," I called, sweetly, "This fellow's offering me a whole dime if I show him my knickers! What do you think?"

Judging by the way my sweaty, furious father came lumbering over like a savage beast, I guess he wasn't too thrilled, and when that fellow saw that his body was about as thick as daddy's neck, he took off. This wasn't the first time something like this happened. When I was younger, right around the time when a girl should be trading the underwaist for a corset, a man (probably drunken) actually said that he didn't want to see my bent leg; he'd rather see my tits. To say that my father "went insane" would be an understatement of biblical porportions. Thankfully, before he could tie the man around the bars, Mr. Taylor called over Mr. Astley, who chucked the guy out. That next Sunday, the lady-freaks took me into the city. I returned with my first corset ever. (Pink with white lace, if you care.)

"Scum," growled my father, then he forced a smile back onto his face to assure the disturbed patrons that he wasn't violent.

Being a freak is a funny sort of life. You don't have to do much except exist, and as long as you don't mind the stares and remarks, it's the easiest job on earth. As of that opening day in 1906, I had been an official, paid-by-the-hour Coney Island freak for twelve seasons. I knew no other life than being gawked at by paying strangers, no other home than the room me and daddy shared, and no other world than the dusty, exotic fairgrounds of Coney Island. As a very young child I didn't think much of it. I thought that most everyone had twisted legs, and learned to walk on boardwalks, and ate food on a stick, and sat in cages, and had elephants and clowns for neighbors, and all those other folks weren't as lucky. After all, daddy always told me that we were _special people_, and that Coney Island was a _special place, _and so it was fitting that we must live there.

That made me real proud. Whenever people came to see me, I'd toss up my little dress with pride and show them my bent leg. Then I'd run over and show them daddy's bent back, and then off I'd go to introduce mama, who only had one shriveled arm but could do flips on a hoop anyway. We were the Flecks, a whole special family. I was always so thrilled when people would push things through the bars to give us as gifts: combs, newspapers, little pamphlets about "the end times", soap, little dolls, and Bibles. Especially Bibles. New Testaments, Old Testaments, ones with paper covers, some with small print, some with pictures of Jesus in them, you name it. (Much to my sorrow, Christ's fate was not as diverse as the Bibles' appearances; he never managed to escape being crucified.) We got so many that we put them all on a shelf like a library. I felt like such a little diva.

Then one day that all changed. I was eight years old. Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi had only been at Coney for a month. It was a typical day, typical crowd. These two young ladies came strolling in. I remember them so clearly. They must have been sisters, perhaps twins, because they both had the same frizzy blond hair and wore similar, floral-patterned dresses, and they both looked so nervous. As always, I tossed up my skirts and showed them my leg, and introduced them to my parents, and all the other freaks went through their routines as well. These young ladies, however, seemed much more saddened than impressed, and as they left I heard this exchange:

"Oh, Mabel. To be stared at all day. Those poor, poor people."

"I know. It makes you feel lucky, doesn't it?"

"I should think so. Oh, it makes me appreciate the normal lives we-"

That's all I heard, but it was enough. The door shut behind them with a thud, and I sat there in the hay with my cheek against a bar, my bent leg limp. I had never felt so small.

They considered us freaks to be _poor, poor people? _ We made them _appreciate their lives?_ And then, suddenly, the cruel reality began to unfold like a nightmare, and all my whole world seemed to evaporate like mist. I'd had it all wrong. People didn't come to admire us for being special. They came to pity us for being malformed, to gawk at what they had been fortunate enough to escape. I looked at the Bibles, the soap, and the combs. People didn't give us those things as gifts. They gave us those things because they thought we were dirty, uneducated heathens as wretched as we looked. Life had its winners and losers. Those pretty sisters with their long, beautiful hair and flowery dresses were the winners, and for a nickel they had come to feel sorry for ugly, plain-clothes Miss Fleck, the loser.

I made a valiant attempt to contain my unhappiness, but as the days went on and on my fears were repeatedly validated. For the first time I noticed the mingled admiration and fear in the patrons' eyes, the sad smile of the missionary girl who slipped me a Bible, the reproving looks mothers gave their children as if to say "See? That might have been you!" I had always been so proud of myself, but by the end of the week I could scarcely raise my head. All I saw before me were endless years of shame, a continual slap in the face I was powerless to challenge. The only thing to do, my eight-year old brain reasoned, would be to commit suicide. Then they would feel bad, and since I would be dead, I wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.

I didn't a gun, nor did I have any idea how to go about hanging myself correctly, so I decided that I must bleed myself. After Friday night's dinner I stole a big knife, left my parents a proper suicide letter, and hid in the back of Mr. Astley's storage closet. I slashed the blade across my palms-there was a sharp, surprisingly fast pain-and then warm trickles of blood came dripping down my arm. With every beat of my heart, a fresh gush gathered at the incision and dripped in streams of brilliant red. I had done it. Now I would die as all my blood oozed out. I lay down, watched my blood make little pools on the ground, and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was in someone's arms, wrapped in a blanket. A light made me wince. Suddenly I heard the sound of a roomful of voices. Had I died? No, I couldn't have. My palms were stiff and stinging, and there wasn't supposed to be pain in Heaven. I blinked hard, and slowly the room-the room me and my parents shared-came into focus. Poor hunched-over daddy was holding me, his tattooed face all teary, and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, was mama, her one little hand shaking. Mrs. Beardsley was rubbing her back. I had bandages on my hands. Over in the corner of the room, I saw Mr. Geddes with the little blue scrap of paper, on which I'd written, _Dear Daddy and Mama, I don't want to be like this anymore. I want to die. I'll miss you. Ariel. _

"Ariel?" Daddy's voice was so frail and hurt that I thought he was someone else. "It's Daddy. Please say something, precious."

I felt drowsy. "Where'm I?"

"We're in our room now," he replied. "Mr. Y found you in the closet."

I became aware of both Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi standing nearby in their night-robes, peering anxiously at me as though I might run over and stab them too.

"Ariel, why have you done this to yourself?" Daddy pleaded. "What's wrong? Did someone say something to you?"

My eyes felt prickly and hot all of a sudden. "Yes."

I cried as I told him about the two girls, the comments they'd made, how I realized I wasn't really special after all, and how I hated being ugly and strange. I wanted people to see what a nice girl I was, and how nice all of us freak-folks were, but I knew that couldn't ever happen. I also went on and on about some other stuff I can't remember, but I talked and cried for a long time, and when I was finally through my parents just sat there, heads hung. Mr. De Rossi dabbed his eyes, and Mr. Y cleared his throat. There is a point in every freak's life when they realize that the world is laughing at them and not with them. They knew I'd reached that point, just as they once had, and it was breaking their hearts.

"Ariel," Mama moaned.

Mr. Y sat down on the bed next to me. "There's nothing you've said that I haven't thought myself," he told me softly, "It's a shame that people will so readily ignore what talents we might have, isn't it? We're like uncut diamonds. If only someone would take the time to recognize all the potential and beauty underneath, and not see all the roughness."

"We'll be vindicated in the next life," my daddy said stoutly, holding me close. "I ain't holding my breath for this one to do any good by us, no sir." My mother flapped her little arm-stump sadly.

"You won't have to wait," replied Mr. Y. His eyes were shining as though he could see something in the distance. He grabbed my hands, gently because of the bandages. "What if I told you, Miss Fleck, that I plan to make us different-different then we are now? We're already different, but we'll be completely changed. We'll be something to be marveled at, admired, and when people see how wonderful we've become they'll be ashamed."

"Like diamonds?" I asked. There was nothing more wonderful than diamonds.

"Exactly like diamonds," he assured me. "I've been thinking about all these Coney Island sideshows for a while now, and I think I've struck upon a plan. It'll take me years, yes, it will most certainly take me many years, but I promise you-" Here he looked into my eyes very seriously-"I promise you I'll be able to do it. But until then, you must promise me that you won't hurt yourself anymore. That will never do."

I looked at my hands and felt like a such a stupid little ninny. "No, that will never do," I said meekly. "I'm sorry I did it. I won't do it anymore, honest."

"That's a good girl." Mr. Y rose and turned to my parents. "You needn't worry about Mr. Astley. I told him Ariel here was playing with a knife and accidentally hurt herself; he seemed content with that. Me and Mr. De Rossi had better get back now."

A moment of grateful handshaking, a couple back-slaps, and our two friends headed out into the night. The freaks who'd helped search for me were similarly thanked, and they too headed off to bed. Now alone as a family, we Flecks had a rather emotional little family discussion that frankly, I don't think you need to know about, but I will say that we came to three important conclusions: firstly, I was loved very deeply. Secondly, life could be unfortunate, but we must be brave. Thirdly, Mr. Y was a fine fellow, but what on earth had he been talking about?

So that was that, and now that I've thoroughly bored you with some of my sad history-which was necessary, I'm afraid-we will return once more to that miserably hot opening day.

All the events of the last ten years went racing through my mind as I read and re-read that letter. Mr. Y was finally ready to do what he had promised me as a child. He had not forgotten. My last day as a mere oddity was today, he said. Oh, the suspense was absolutely awful. It seemed that it would be never be closing time, but before long the sky began to darken, the lights began sparkling, and the night-time attractions were opening. A refreshing breeze off the sea was tossing the hay. Mr. Astley strode in, shut the doors, locked them, and nodded.

"Alright, folks. We're closed."

We rumbled to our feet, looking at one another in nervous anticipation. It was night-time now. _Tonight all will be made clear_, Mr. Y had written.

"I have an announcement, though, before you go," said Mr. Astley, and to our great excitement, in walked Mr. Y, his suit sharp and his mask gleaming, Mr. De Rossi at his side. "We're coming under new management. Mr. Y here has purchased this freakshow."

Purchased it? Mr. Y was our boss now? We all gasped.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Astley, grinning. "Purchased it this afternoon for a nice price. Well, my fine ladies and gentle-freaks, it's been a pleasure workin' with you. Mr. Y's in charge now. I'm out!"

Out went the man who'd run my life since I was child, so delighted that he was practically skipping, and we were alone with Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi. The door shut. We looked at them. They looked at us.

"My first order as your new boss," said Mr. Y seriously, "Is this." He let the tension build for a few heartbeats, then a sly little smile tugged at his mouth. "Get the hell out of those cages. You won't need them anymore."

I believe everyone within a 3-mile radius heard us cheer. It was a party. Daddy kissed me, Mr. Geddes threw hay in the air like confetti, and the others slapped palms and tapped those hateful old bars that would never shut us away again. All the years we'd waited, hoping for the promise to come true! If only my precious mama were alive to see. It was the one thorn in my otherwise perfect happiness.

"Alright," said Mr. Y after we'd climbed out and sat around him. "I've succeeded in Phase One of my plan, namely, purchase Astley's Astonishments. Tomorrow I hope to purchase the rest of the surrounding freakshows, and then we can begin the real work."

"You're purchasing all of them?" my father asked disbelievingly. "Forgive me asking, but with what money?"

"Mine, naturally," replied Mr. Y glibly, "And of course, I will be helped by my investors; they are most interested in my vision."

He sat down and motioned for us to all have a look at his sketchbook. On the first page, there was a watercolor sketch of a big city, filled with all sorts of wonderous things. There was a tall building in the city's center, and from that point streets went out in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. There was a volcano, a Roman Colleseum, crystal fountains, pavillions, restaurants, a giant funhouse, a concert hall, and more things. If I were to list them all I would go on for years. Above this beautiful picture, in black marker, was the legend _PHANTASMA: CITY OF WONDERS. _

"What do you think of my world, my friends?" Mr. Y asked, seeming to take great pleasure in astonishing us. "It'll look even better once it's built."

We looked at the sketch, then at Mr. Y, then all around us, hardly daring to believe it. It was going to be real!

I suddenly became aware of Mr. De Rossi sitting down beside me and tugging my ear. _"Well, Signorina," _he mouthed teasingly, _"What do you think? Good surprise?" _

_**(Miss Fleck ends her story for now.)**_

Miss Fleck settled back against the fence and nudged Mr. Whittington. "Sorry to stop short, but have you got a pencil and paper? Men always seem to."

Once produced, she began to write.

"What are you writing?" asked Mr. Whittington.

"The location of my beloved Mr. De Rossi, otherwise known as Gregory, once known as 'Gangle'," Miss Fleck replied. "I bet he remembers quite a bit of Phantasma too. He knew Mr. Y even before I did. There. Here's the address. You know where that is?"

On the paper was the address of the Brooklyn City Prison.

"Yes, I know where that is." Mr. Whittington wondered what Mr. De Rossi was in prison for, but decided not to ask.

"Excellent. Tell him that Ariel Fleck sent you. If he doesn't believe you, tell him that my nickname is _Signorina_."

"Signorina?"

"Yes." Miss Fleck sighed. "Well, anyway, Mr. Whittington, you can go see him tomorrow; I'm sure he'll be a help. Judging by how long telling you about my childhood took, it's going to take me a good couple of days to relate my whole story. Between the two of us, I think we'll do fine."

Together, Miss Fleck and Mr. Whittington went back through the fence and onto that old boardwalk. It was late afternoon now. The boats were coming back in, the people thinning out, the temperature getting cooler. Miss Fleck took out the white scarf and put it on.

"Thank you," said Mr. Whittington, shaking her hand. "For talking to me. You'll...be alright?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright here. All by yourself."

She shrugged. "I've been alright here for fifteen years."

Mr. Whittington knew that he must leave and get ready for dinner with Rodger, but something in Miss Fleck's voice made him want to bring her along, tidy her up, let her stay in his spare room. It just seemed so ungentlemanly to leave her alone.

"I wish you'd come with me," he admitted. "You know, I have a spare room in my rented place; I'd feel better if you'd sleep there instead of out here in the cold."

The very idea of leaving her fence seemed to throw Miss Fleck into a panic. "No, no, I'd better say no," she replied, shaking her head. "It's nice of you, but no. Definitely no."

"You can trust me."

"Oh, it's not that I don't trust you," she insisted with a frightened little laugh. "It's just that..." Her eyes darted across her fence with all the eyeless advertisements. "I can't...leave. At least I don't think I can."

There was a minute or so of silence as she seemed to struggle with the idea of leaving, looking from the fence to Mr. Whittington with trembling lips.

At length she finally said, "Not tonight, but I'll think about it. Go see Mr. De Rossi in the meantime. Then come see me again. Bring a sandwich when you do."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "Alright then, Miss Fleck. Any specific requests?"

"Turkey."

"I'll do that." He patted her shoulder and turned to go. "Be safe until then, ma'am."

"You remind me of them," said Miss Fleck gently.

He turned back. "Who?"

Her eyes watered slightly. "All of my loves."

Mr. Whittington kept hearing that phrase replaying in his mind for the rest of the night, as he ate dinner with Rodger, as he looked over all the old photographs of Coney Island, as he lay down in his apartment with a cup of tea. _All of my loves. _He tried to think of all the loves a girl like Miss Fleck might have. He looked at the address she'd written-with surprisingly lovely handwriting- in his notepad, and wondered how this Mr. De Rossi, her "Gangle", might help him unfold even more of the story.

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:**

**1. Thanks for reading "City of Wonders!" I told you the chapters would get longer! **

**2. This chapter's bonus picture is the pre-Phantasma Fleck family (Fleck, Squelch, and Polly), drawn like cute cartoons! The link will be provided to all my reviewers. **

**3. For those who don't know, I DO ALLOW Anonymous reviews, and a membership with this site is NOT required. Yay! In that case, you'd have to PM me with an email address to send the bonus picture link.**

**4. This story is a seperate entity from "Freaks Never Die". What goes on in this story does not necessarily affect that one. **


	3. Mr Whittington Meets Dr Gangle

Chapter Three

"Mr. Whittington Meets Dr. Gangle"

It seemed like a decent day-if there was any such day-to go interview a prisoner. There was no wind, and without the accompanying chill the temperature was certainly tolerable. People hoping to take advantage of this temporary lull in the cold filled the streets. The less adventurous tossed open their windows, so as to air out their dwellings. By breakfast time the street vendors appeared, scarf-less, the children were herded into school, the diners were filled, and Brooklyn settled into its usual (albeit more spirited) routine. Honks, yells, and rumbles filled the air, and at a nearby diner, Mr. Whittington and Rodger were enjoying breakfast. They had been there for a while, leisurely discussing Miss Fleck, her imprisoned friend, and the book-in-progress.

"Brooklyn City Prison, huh?" chuckled Rodger, dipping his toast in his coffee. "Ariel's got friends in high places, I see! Do you know what the man's in the clink for?"

"No," confessed Mr. Whittington. "It didn't seem like the thing to ask at the time."

Rodger smiled indulgently at his companion's European scruples. "I ain't being nosy; I'm just trying to figure out what level of security this guy's under. If he's pretty high-security, they won't let you see him, even if we are from the press."

_"You're_ from the press," corrected Mr. Whittington.

"What the guards don't know won't hurt 'em," came the cheeky reply. "I've got a pal in there, Harold Haney. He looks over the whole visiting business, see, so we've got an ally. If there's any chance of you seeing the guy, it's with me and Haney. Good odds, I think."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "I concur. Still, let's not do anything illegal, Rodger."

"You'll never make it in America, Jay. Nevertheless, you have my word."

At length the two men eventually arrived at the Brooklyn City Prison, a solemn, severe stone building that seemed aware that it housed criminals, and its Spartan architecture reflected its grim resignation. A small stairway led up to a large reinforced door. All of the visible windows were striped with bars. Inside, the tiled floor clacked under their heels and reflected the gleam of the overhead lamps so strongly that Mr. Whittington felt as though he were walking on a mirror. Everything felt sterile and empty. There was a definite smell of ammonia and floor polish. Rodger's good-natured bantering, most of which his companion was not hearing, bounced and echoed off the institution's bare, unadorned walls.

Ahead of them was a door with a buzzer. Through a window they could see the office, where a few uniformed prison guards were going about their business, shuffling papers. One of them, a heavy, strong-jawed man with thinning hair, looked up in their direction and seemed to recognize Rodger.

Rodger pressed the buzzer. "Hey, Haney! We're lookin' to inteview a prisoner. Press business. Can we come in?"

Haney had a good-natured smile as he let Mr. Whittington and Rodger in, but his eyes and voice were cautious when he asked them a few necessary questions.

"An interview? Who's the prisoner?"

"Gregory De Rossi."

"De Rossi, huh?" Haney frowned. "De Rossi. Oh, yeah, I know De Rossi. Been here for a while, he has."

Rodger sensed trepidation in his friend's voice. "Something wrong, Haney?"

"Nothing wrong," the guard said, sitting back down at his desk and regarding the two men carefully, "It's just that...De Rossi's not a big fan of the press. We've had reporters here before, and he's never allowed a single one any audience with him. Makes him furious. Hell, he hates visitors in general, we can barely let those prison missionaries near him. Only person he'll see is that crazy little old maid...Miss Ariel Something..."

"That's Miss Fleck, and she's the one who sent us," Mr. Whittington felt compelled to add. "We're interviewing her now, and she told us to come see Mr. De Rossi."

"Yeah, if you mention that to the guy, he might be cooperative," chipped in Rodger.

Haney furrowed his brow in skepticism and went to a filing cabinet.

"It's worth a try, ain't it, Haney?"

"I never said it wasn't," the guard replied, flipping through files. "Just checking out his file, lookin' to see if he's under any special restrictions..."

Mr. Whittington looked past the guard's station into the eerie bowels of the prison. He couldn't see any cells, but he could make out the hallways that led there. There was a feeling of stagnant dread in the air, like a haunted house, and when the shadows of guards passed over the walls like ghosts, Mr. Whittington shivered, grateful that he was not shut up in a place like this.

"Alright," said Haney, now peering into a file. "Gregory De Rossi, our intrepid Italian. Hmm, hmm...alright, he was originally allowed one closed visit per two weeks, but they've recently lowered that to one...good behavior and all, and he's due for release in two months. Last visit was made yesterday by a Miss Fleck."

"Once a week. Wait, that doesn't mean...?"

"You're the press, and that would be an exception. What are you hoping to get out of him, exactly?"

Mr. Whittington enthusiastically explained his purpose, and an amused Haney sent a guard to fetch Mr. De Rossi. He then led the two men into the visiting room. It was a room divided by a thick glass wall, a long counter, and chairs. On the wall was a large clock.

"Under the restrictions, you've got an hour," Haney explained.

Rodger grinned. "I always knew I liked you for some reason, Haney. Thanks. Say, if he don't finish relatin' his story to us, we can come back, right?"

But at that moment the door on the other side of the glass opened, and two uniformed guards strode in. Between them was Gregory De Rossi, a tall, swarthy man with streaks of gray in his black hair, a serious face, and shifty eyes that examined Mr. Whittington and Rodger keenly as he took his seat. He looked reasonably well-kept for a man of forty-seven, but his years in prison had obviously imparted a drawn, mean look on his countenance. There was thick scarring on his neck. He did not look pleased.

"Awright, D' Rossi," one of his guards said. "These gennel-men have got an hour with ya, unless ya wanna bail out early. Awright?"

Mr. De Rossi's eyes did not leave the two men beyond the glass. He raised a small trumpet-like device to his throat. It seemed that he could not talk without it. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice a dark mixture of Brooklyn and Italian accent.

Footsteps, a clattering door, and then Mr. Whittington and Rodger were alone with the man they hoped to interview.

"Good morning, Mr. De Rossi," Rodger said with a brightness he did not feel. "The name's Garland, New York Times, and this is my friend, Whittington. We've..."

"Why did Miss Fleck send you?" interrupted Mr. De Rossi curtly. He was clearly not a man who suffered fools. "And how do you know her?"

It seemed good to Mr. Whittington to take over from here. "I became acquainted with Miss Fleck yesterday, very much by accident. You see, she'd apparently been coming back from visiting you, and very nearly got hit by a car when she tripped and fell into the street..."

Mr. De Rossi's face froze into a mask of knee-jerk fear. "Almost hit by a car?" he questioned anxiously, all pretenses of bravado forgotten. "Did she get hurt? Is she okay now?"

"She was completely fine; the driver swerved," assured Mr. Whittington. "But she was almost fainting with nerves, so I got her something to eat and drink, and at length we got to talking. The subject came around to Phantasma, and the whole mystery of Mr. Y. It was really quite an extraordinary coincidence, because she was once a Phantasma employee, and I was a friend of Mr. Y and his son near the end of their lives. In fact, I'm writing a book about my experiences."

"Mr. Y!" breathed Mr. De Rossi, and for a moment he seemed to retreat inwardly, his eyes swimming with memories of the past. "It's been years since...wait. You knew him...er, them? Mr. Y and the kid? When?"

Mr. Whittington explained it to Mr. De Rossi the same way he did to Miss Fleck. He explained the death of Mr. Y, his purpose in researching Phantasma, and all the details of his writings, and when he was through the prisoner sat back, breathing out an amazed sigh.

"Mr. Y and the kid, dead," he said, shaking his head. "I can barely believe it. It had to happen sometime, but...damn."

Mr. Whittington accepted a pad and paper from Rodger, who was sitting back, content to let his friend do the interviewing. "So, Mr. De Rossi," he asked respectfully, "May I have the privilege of hearing your part in this story that Miss Fleck has begun?"

"My story?" Mr. De Rossi's eyes rolled up contemplatively as though he were surveying a pile of paperwork. "Geez, where would you want me to start, and how much do you want to hear? Where did Ariel leave off?"

"Well, first, let's just get some preliminaries straightened out, then I'll bring you up to date on the story thus far. Your full name, birthday, and birthplace?"

"Gregory Vincenzo De Rossi. My birthday is September 1, 1874, and I was born here in Brooklyn," replied Mr. De Rossi smoothly. "But I didn't live here long. My father died when I was five, and my mother took my brother and I back to Italy. My parents were both Italian citizens. So I lived in Milan until around '97, and then I came back here to Brooklyn with Mr. Y."

The preliminaries thus established, Mr. Whittington explained the story up to the point where Miss Fleck had stopped, noting with pleasure the smile on Mr. De Rossi's face as the narrative brought the memories rushing back to him.

"Ha!" he laughed. "Hey, that was the night Mr. Y bought Astley's. I remember that. Here, let me pick up where she stopped."

_**(Gangle picks up the story)**_

I'll never forget the warm, hay-scented night me and Mr. Y informed the freaks of Astley's Astonishments that they were coming under new management. What a moment! It was the culmination of ten years' planning, most of which even I had been kept in the dark. Despite living with the man in the same freakshow for ten years, despite coming the the United States on the same ship, despite sharing his plight as a guy in trouble, I'd come no closer to unraveling any of Mr. Y's mysteries-no pun intended-than any of the other freaks in Coney. "Ran into some trouble in France," that's all he told me. "Ran into some trouble in Italy," I replied, and a sort of partnership was born.

Anyhow, there we were, gathered around Mr. Y like it was story-time or something, his sketchbook open, his vivid imagination on display. Outside the room where our little assembly was gathered, it was business as usual on Coney Island. Lights were flashing, ragtime was blaring, rides were roaring around on their tracks, people sat by the sea, watching the stars. But for us, a whole new world was coming to life after ten years' gestation. At my side sat Ariel Fleck, rapt with wonder. She was never so beautiful as she was sitting there, the wonderment shimmering in her sweet, watery eyes, her cheeks flushing, and the light gleaming on the gathered mass of black braids twisted at the nape of her neck.

The sight of her warmed my heart. With love? Maybe. If it had, I didn't know it at the time. I was just a man, who, in the privacy of his own mind, was waxing poetic over Miss Fleck and admitting that she was pretty easy on the eyes.

Tugging her ear, I teasingly mouthed, _Well, Signorina? What do you think? Good surprise? _

"It's great," she gushed. "It must given you _cholera_, keeping it a secret all day."

Mr. Y turned the page, and Phantasma was replaced by a tall, forbidding building. It rose above the city like a great obelisk. At the very top were two windows shaped like eyes, and they seemed to glow, yellow and all-seeing, from that spire of black. Nearby were the written words: _THE AYRIE. _

"My workshop," explained Mr. Y. "I should like to have it directly in the center of Phantasma. A place where I can concentrate on my work."

He turned the page again, and there was a watercolor sketch of an acrobat on an aerial hoop, a lovely girl dressed in blue with feathers on her head and a beautiful peacock's tail that fanned out beneath her. Next to this sketch was another of the very same girl, only dressed in a new ensemble of black, white lace, and feathers. Her eyes were dreamy and smoky, and her little mouth was painted in a red Cupid's bow. _THE FABULOUS MISS FLECK_, it said.

Ariel's voice was modulated and calm, but she could not resist the smile that squeezed her cheeks into her eyes. "That's me?"

"Yes," Mr. Y replied, nodding gently. "That's you. It was supposed to be your mother, but obviously we couldn't have known..."

Her cheeks resumed their natural position, and a sense of duty and tenderness swept across her little features. Her lips tightened a bit. She twiddled the emerald ring on her finger.

Mr. Y was quiet for a moment, as though he were contemplating something, but then he reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder."I have seen you do aerial acrobatics before, Miss Fleck. Your mother-bless her-taught you well. That's why I'm going to let you have her act. You'll perform admirably, I'm certain you can."

Black-clad Alf 's smile was proud as he looked at the beautiful sketch of his daughter, but there was a tremble of heartache on the corner of his lips that betrayed his true emotions. It really was a bittersweet tribute to the deceased Mrs. Fleck. "I'm certain of it, too," he said. "She'll be so pleased."

We saw all sorts of wonderful pictures! We saw detailed drawings of electrical schematics, banners, blueprints, and whole areas dedicated to us, the performers. Then there was a sketch of ol' Alf, dressed in a military-esque jacket, surrounded by all sorts of weights and dumbells. He looked strong, he looked threatening, but most noticeably, he was standing upright. _THE MIGHTY SQUELCH, _it said.

From his position on the ground, curled over like a twisted old tree, Alf regarded the sketch with both happiness and confusion. "I'm all straightened out in that sketch," he said. "It's a great idea, but how am I supposed to...?"

"Don't worry," Mr. Y assured him. "You'll see."

Sketch after sketch! We saw Mrs. Bearsley with her beard attractively braided, armed with hair-styling implements. We saw Mr. Geddes operating automatrons. We saw Della juggling with all three of her arms. We saw all of our friends from Astley's Astonishments, doing all sorts of interesting things, and we even saw the freaks from the surrounding shows. There was a fire-eater, a contortionist, and most astonishingly, Aggie-Ann, the girl with two heads, singing and playing the guitar! On and on! At last, there were no more sketches, and Mr. Y shut his book.

"That," he concluded, "Is what I have been envisioning, and judging by your faces you're just as excited about it as I am. This whole area-" He made a wide gesture-"This whole area that houses the freak shows will have to be demolished, and then we shall begin building immediately, so as not to get off schedule."

"What is your schedule, if you don't mind me asking?" inquired Alf.

"My schedule is simple," replied Mr. Y, and a determined look came into his eyes. "I wish to have Phantasma up and running for the 1907 season. That gives us exactly one year, and until then, I'd like to begin implementing some of my plan. We will begin tomorrow. Never mind getting up as though you are performing; we shall all be on vacation until I am satisfied."

All this time, Ariel-my "Signorina"-was leaning back against me, filled with awe at Mr. Y. I could almost see the reflection of his mask in her gleaming eyes. He stood, tucking his notebook under his arm, an impressive sight in that dingy room.

"Tomorrow marks a new day for all of us. I am glad-most glad-that I have been able to bring this to fruition. Goodnight, goodnight to all of you. I must head back."

There were exclamations of delight and praise as all the freaks gathered about Mr. Y, their savior, shaking his hand and practically following him out the door, promising their wholehearted devotion and help. Ariel and her father offered to buy him a shaved ice, but he politely declined.

"Mr. De Rossi!" Mr. Y called over to me. "Are you returning with me, or do you wish to stay longer?"

I nodded and held up a finger. I wanted to stay a bit longer.

"I see," he replied. "Then I shall see you later." He put on his cloak and slipped off into the darkness, and the last we saw of him was his white mask, illuminated by the moon. He really knew how to make an exit.

"Je-ru-salem crickets!" breathed Alf, shaking his tattooed head in wonderment. "I can hardly believe it! Did you ever see such plans? Such sketches?"

"Never in all my life," gasped Mrs. Beardsley. "That Mr. Y is a wonder!"

"My daughter, an aerialist! And myself..." Alf frowned a bit. "Well, I still don't know what to make of his plans for me, but I reckon Mr. Y can do just about anything. That man's going places, I tell you, and we'd better stick by him all we can. Very reasonable, very reasonable indeed."

Mr. Y was true to his word. The very next day he awoke before the dawn-without waking me-and purchased the neighboring freakshows. I was still yawning and searching around for my drawers when I heard the ruckus outside my room.

"Purchased them! Yes, and ours, too," cried Ms. De Luzy, the legless woman, and there were footsteps and laughs as the newly informed freaks dashed about to make sure all of us knew.

"The Flecks just told me that he purchased Astley's last night," added Tom, the pierced fellow who always carried her around on a pillow. "To think we were all eating dinner while this was going on!"

"Hey!" yelled a breathless, brazen-sounding contralto that could only belong to Genevieve Pennysworth, the contortionist. I heard her sharp little heels clattering in the hall. Her brother-the fire-eater-couldn't be far behind. "Carrie! Tom! You'll never..."

"We already know, Genny! He purchased ours, too, just an hour ago!"

"I'll be damned!" she puffed. "I didn't think he'd actually do it. Never mind, Damien! They know already!"

By this point, I was fully dressed, and when I emerged into the hallway I was presented with quite the same tableau I'd imagined: Tom grinning, the morning sunlight gleaming on his face of piercings, little Ms. De Luzy perched regally upon the red cushion he held, and the two Pennysworth siblings striding over, Genny's narrow, pointed face crowned by a respectable Gibson girl pompadour and her mouth puckered around a lollipop, and her brother Damien's permanently scarred mouth twisted into a gruesome smile.

"Ah, De Rossi," Damien greeted me. "Good morning. It seems that your friend Mr. Y is everybody's boss now, but you already knew that, hmm?"

I nodded and looked out over the expanse of scorched grass where all the freakshows were housed, like curious, gaudy barns. Five minutes until opening time and not a soul stirring to get ready!

"He told us we're on vacation 'til he figures out what to do next," he continued. "Imagine that! Us! On a goddamn vacation! I like this guy already!"

"That ain't our God whose name yer takin' in vain, eh, Day-mee-in?" demanded a warm southern drawl, and to everyone's great amusement, Agatha and Ann Hansel (called "Aggie-Ann"), the twins who shared everything but a head, came strolling over, One body, two heads, and more religion than most of us freaks-and perhaps even the Tri-state area-combined. Still, they were cute, quaint, and a sight so charming that you couldn't help but smile.

"O' course I wasn't talkin' about your God, Aggie!" Damien drawled back. "And what if I was? What's that passage? Somethin' about not judging lest you get judged, or whatever the hell..."

"I'll thank ya not to be quotin' Scripture in vain!" grouched Ann while the other head nodded seriously. "I guess we'll just go an' deliver Mr. Wah's message to someone else, then!"

"A message from Mr. Y?" inquired Mrs. De Luzy.

"You heard right!" declared Aggie. "Well, me an' Ann'll head on over to Alf n' Air-yull and tell 'em. Now there's some good folks who don't swear!"

And off they marched past us, each sister controlling her corresponding leg and arm in time with the other, their dual heads bobbing resolutely.

"Swell job, jackass," sneered Genevieve to her irritated brother, popping out her lollipop and digging a cigarette out of her skirt pocket "Doncha know Aggie-Ann doesn't stand for guff? I guess we'll have to go see the Flecks if we want to know the message. Here, redeem yourself by lighting this."

"Well, we'd better head after them," said Ms. De Luzy, shifting on her cushion. Then she looked at me. "Say, Mr. De Rossi, Mr. Y didn't tell you the message yet, did he? You always seem to be in the know."

_No, _I wrote on the pad and paper I always carried so I could communicate. _He only told me that he'd be buying the freakshows. I don't know where he is now. Let's follow Aggie-Ann to the Flecks' place. _

So off we went after the rapidly-retreating Aggie-Ann like a strange, freakish train, the Pennysworth siblings making short work of their cigarettes up front, I trekking along in the middle, and Tom carrying Ms. De Luzy, our little red caboose.

Now, none of us freaks really had homes of our own. We lived close by the freakshows in low, partitioned little joints that were like apartments. With three little rooms and lousy lighting, they sure weren't luxurious, but they were free, and they provided our employers with an excuse to pay us peanuts. You know, the "room and board" thing. The Flecks lived in Apartment 1-A, at the start of the chain. Long before he'd even married or Ariel was born, Alf had lived in there with his father and brothers, so one could truthfully drop terms like "family estate" and "Fleck Manor" when it came to describing the Flecks' meager apartment.

Speaking of "Fleck Manor", I feel the need to describe the place, because it was really unlike any home I'd ever seen. First of all, the smell. As we knocked on the door and trooped in after Aggie-Ann, that familiar smell hit me: the smell of books, ancient lace, and dusty, six-hundred year old pouporri. Second of all, the pictures. If the Flecks had wallpaper, I never saw it. There were framed paintings, daguerrotypes, and photographs-I am not exaggerating-from the ceiling to the floor, of every major Fleck milestone and ancestor, probably all the way back to the Renaissance. There were also a couple Greek Orthodox icons of Jesus, Virgin Mary, and Saint Anastasia, for the Flecks were Orthodox Catholics. Third, the layout. It never changed. As I walked in, the room looked exactly as it had the first time I'd ever seen it, furniture positions and all, ten years ago. Well, there was one difference. They'd bought an electric lamp. Other than that, "Fleck Manor" was like going to a living history museum potraying life during the Civil War.

Ariel was at the table, wearing a quaint, old timey-looking maroon dress that really fit the spirit of the room, and to complete the picture, she was pouring tea into two matching cups. She looked up when we came in.

"Well, good morning, and come right in, Aggie-Ann-" At this point she noticed the parade behind them, and her eyebrows rose-"And...Mr. Pennysworth, and Genny, and Signor De Rossi, and Mr. Cutter, and Ms. De Luzy."

Alf's tattooed head poked out of his bedroom, followed slowly by his hunched, crawling body. "Er, good morning. What brings all of you here?"

"We've got a message from Mr. Wah," announced Aggie and the other head nodded importantly. "He wants ya to know that 'e's got to deal with fah-nan-shull business off in the city, and he ain't goin' to be back 'til later. He left Ma-dum Giry an' her daughter here. But when 'e does, he's gonna get all o' us freaks together and teach us t' sing."

"Sing what?"

"Well, 'e didn't mention what. But that there's the message. All these folks had to foller us on account o' Day-mee-in quotin' Scripture in vain. No wonder 'e's called Day-mee-in. You and Air-yull are 'spectable folks, an' that's why we told you first!"

Damien and Genevieve took a final drag on their cigarettes and snuffed them underfoot outside.

Alf's eyes glittered at all of us where we stood, shamefaced, in his doorway. "Well, well, you pack of sinners. No use standin' around in my doorway; come sit down. Ariel, just put on some extra water."

Eventually we all crammed ourselves around the Flecks' little table, where we were served cracker sandwiches and tea with some antiquated china set that a Fleck ancestor probably brought over on the Mayflower. Ariel was surprisingly agile, even with a bent leg and a crutch. She waited on us with ease, filling cups, taking dishes, and making certain that her father, who had to eat on a nearby couch, had enough pillows to support his twisted back. He looked like a curious, tattooed house-pet.

"So Mr. Y is off on financial business," Alf mused. "I really hope he hasn't gotten so carried away with his plans that he's becoming unreasonable with his finances. A man must be reasonable with his finances!"

That was a big thing with Alf, the word _reasonable_ and the concept of _being reasonable._ He used it like some sort of sacred precept. I don't think he even realized it.

"All I know is I'm on paid vacation," sighed Genevieve, popping a new lollipop into her mouth. She had thousands at her disposal. "Mr. Y is just fine and dandy with me. Say, Ariel, that's a swell dress you got on. Maroon! Just matches your lips and cheeks. Utterly too-too. I can't wear maroon, unfortunately, not if I want to look worth a _damn!" _

"Genny!" gasped Ann as Ariel politely nodded her head at the compliment.

"Aw, stuff it, Ann, live a little. Say, Mr. Fleck, now that we're all on vacation, what'll we do evenings?"

Alf had never been fond of Genevieve or her brother (too unreasonable, he claimed), but he was never rude. Still, you could see the tightness around his lips whenever he addressed them.

"What'll we do evenings?" he repeated, his forehead wrinkling. "I guess we'll do what we always have."

"Of course that's always an option, but I for one am going to simply pass away if I've got to waste my vacation embroidering bags." Genevieve drooped back in her chair to illustrate it. "We should head into Brooklyn one of these nights. Go to a dance, see a picture show, join a club, go to a meeting or two!"

Damien's scarred lips smiled insolently. "A meeting, huh?"

"Yeah, I said 'meeting'," repeated Genevieve, blushing, suddenly defensive. "What of it?"

Her brother's tone was sly as he chuckled, "I know your angle. You're tryin' to strong-arm some of these ladies into going to that godawful suffragette society of yours..."

It was the wrong thing to say, for Coney Island's militant feminist rose like a phantom and declared, as though pronouncing a death sentence, "And what if I am, sir?" With that big hairdo of hers, she was pretty tall. "Della Caine already does, and we're always in need of fresh faces. I guess I'll do as I please! You don't boss me."

"Of course I don't boss you," sighed Damien, rolling his eyes. "No one can boss you. Sit down and quit makin' a scene."

"Shut your scarred pie-hole and don't force me to make one!"

Alf rolled his eyes in a here-we-go-again sort of way, and Ariel, anticipating a traditional Pennysworth meltdown, scooted off to a bin and returned with an apple which she now offered sweetly to the irate Genevieve. "Have an apple, Genny?"

Her distraction was amazingly effective.

"An apple?" Genny gasped. "I didn't know you had apples, but..." Suddenly she seemed to notice something and she screamed with delight. "Oh, it matches! Look! The redness of the apple almost perfectly matches your dress and cheeks and lips! And your emerald ring, like a green leaf! Oh, you look so dear holding it like that. It would be beastly of me to take it away. I declare I've never seen anything half as cute! You ought to be in pictures! I could practically kiss you!"

And so our ruthless crusader had been diverted from her rampage. Damien flashed Ariel a rare look of gratitute and scarfed down a third sandwich. He didn't realize I had been reaching for it.

"We have not yet settled the issue of entertainment on evenings," said Ms. De Luzy. "I have an idea."

Both Aggie and Ann's heads perked up. "So long as it ain't a God-forsaken dance," Aggie cautioned. "That ain't nice."

"No, no, I wasn't going to suggest that at all. I've just been thinking about how long it's been since we heard Ariel read aloud. It's really been some time, and she does such an excellent job, particularly with Poe. Remember how she read _The Cask of Amontillado?"_

"How could I forget?" replied Genevieve around a mouthful of apple. "It was thrilling. If I'm really going to be trapped here like a Victorian maiden, I guess I'd like to hear Ariel read! I second the motion."

Unable to voice my assent, I coughed.

Damien nodded. "Well, if De Rossi's in on it, I third the motion. Er, fourth it, rather."

"We fifth and sixth it!" chorused Aggie-Ann.

Tom briefly stopped twaddling his lip ring to say, "Seventh it."

"One moment, please," said Alf. I'd forgotten he was there. He had a way of fading into the background and then re-emerging sternly when provoked. "You all seem to be taking my daughter's consent for granted."

He also had a way of making you feel really guilty for no reason. We squirmed and looked at Ariel. She, in turn, looked back at her father, and then I saw the eyes of both Flecks gravitate slowly towards the same photograph on their musuem-esque wall: Alf's wedding portrait. There, looking solemnly out of a hazy, sepia-toned world, was Alf and his wife, the former in a parlor chair, hunched-over but handsome in a fine suit, and the latter a blushing-and one-armed-Victorian bride, draped in white lace, a big beribboned bustle behind her.

Back in the real world, we all made the unfortunate connection between Ariel reading aloud, the photograph, and the tight, saddened expressions of father and daughter Fleck. Alf in particular seemed to shrink a bit into his black widower's clothes.

Ms. De Luzy moaned in mortification. "Oh! Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize...we certainly wouldn't want to make Ariel feel obliged to do anything she doesn't wish to..."

"You'll be forgivin' us, won't ya?" murmured Aggie. "It didn't occur ta us that...that _she_ was alive the last time Air-yull read t' us, God rest 'er saintly soul."

I bowed my head in wordless apology.

"Please," said Ariel, dismissing our shame with a kind glint in her eyes. "Please, don't be upset. I'm sure reading in the evenings again would be swell. I'd be glad to do it. I think Mama would be pleased to see us enjoying the old stories she used to love. Especially Poe!" She stroked the emerald ring on her finger as she turned to her father. "Don't you think she'd like it, Daddy?"

Alf's eyes lingered on the photograph for a moment, but then that tattooed face of his warmed into a tender expression. "I think she would," he replied. "Seems reasonable to me."

Thus christened by Alf with the label of _reasonability _(Is that a word? It is now.), our entertainment for the evenings was settled. And that very evening, Mr. Y returned from the city with a satisfied smile and summoned us all together for a music lesson.

In what used to be the Astley's Astonishments freakshow building, Madame Giry and Meg had rolled in a piano whose glory days were definitely over. It was supposed to be one that could play itself when set up with a music roll, but the mechanism was broken and the keys were chipped. When we all came trooping in, Mr. Y was seated at it, examining a battered old hymnal. He didn't seem particularly impressed with the contents. As he flipped through the pages, he quietly but fiercely denounced every piece, saying things like: _Predictable. Uninspired. Amatuerish. Boring. Asinine. _Madame Giry and Meg were standing by silently. They knew him well enough to keep their distance and shut their traps when uninspired music was angering him.

Speaking of distance, I never really bothered to get acquainted with either the dour Madame Giry or her daughter. While we freaks and Mr. Y had definite moments of comradeship, the Girys were content to remain on their little French island and remain totally aloof. They spoke English only when it was necessary, wanted nothing to do with any of us freaks, and spent their days acting like Coney was a temporary exile, interested only in dollar signs and investing. Meg was cute, though. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pretty good dancer. If only she didn't look so sick and nervous all the time, I'd say she was beautiful. Not as beautiful as Ariel, though.

"Ah," said Madame Giry when she saw us, "Les monstres sont arrivés."

I know the word _monstres_ means _freaks_ in French, but I still cringed when she used it. Hey, Mr. Y! The _monsters_ have arrived. Just like we were a pack of drooling beasts, fresh out of our cages.

Mr. Y lifted weary eyes from the hymnal. "Je vois. Voulez-vous rester? Je n'ai pas plus besoin de vous, mais vous pouvez rester si vous le souhaitez."

"Non, merci. Bonne nuit."

In a nutshell, he asked them if they wanted to stay, and they said no. Exit Madame Giry and Meg.

"Good evening, all of you," Mr. Y greeted us. "As I intend to integrate music into Phantasma, it seems only fitting that I ought to hone your skills accordingly. Of course, our friend, Mr. De Rossi, cannot sing-" Here he gestured to me, and I shrugged off everyone's sympathetic clucking-"Because he cannot make a sound. Yet."

Yet? My heart leapt. He hadn't forgotten...

"In the meantime," he continued quickly, before anyone could start making inquiries, "Let us begin. I understand, from what Aggie-Ann has told me, that you all like to sing together on Sundays, utilizing this hymnal."

We nodded our confirmation.

"Very well. So I assume that you are all familiar with song fifty-four? _He Leadeth Me? _Yes? In that case, I will hear you sing it once through, and I will provide the accompaniment."

At my side, Ariel made a little pleasant sound. She liked this song.

Mr. Y sat, fingers poised above the well-worn keys. "I am however, altering the key. As a matter of fact, I re-composed the whole thing, but I think playing it in a minor instead of a major would give it an interesting effect, don't you?"

Hell if we knew.

"Uh, Mr. Wah?" Ann piped up. "How'd ya do that? Do you got a lot o' trainin' in music?"

A sly look glittered in Mr. Y's eyes, as though he were trying not to smile. "You could say that," he replied.

His skilled fingers played the newly-composed opening. It was so impressive, we almost forgot to sing. Where on earth did Mr. Y learn to play the piano like that? But everyone (except for me of course) opened their mouths and sang:

_He leadeth me; O blessed thought! _

_What words with heavenly comfort fraught!_

_What-e'er I go, wher-e'er I be,_

_Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me. _

_He leadeth me, He leadeth me,_

_By His own hand He leadeth me._

_His faithful follower I would be,_

_For by His hand he leadeth me. _

Nice lyrics, huh? Unfortunately, the delivery sounded like a herd of cows being hit by a train. Half of them were off-key, the other half tried to drown out the wrong notes by yelling it, and almost all of them were attempting notes that they couldn't hit. Thankfully, God had seen fit to _leadeth_ them to musically-inclined Mr. Y, who seemed to realize that we sure as hell weren't the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. As the piano's vibrations hummed into silence, he looked at us with a rather crazed, horrified look in his eye. I actually thought the man was going to cry.

But he took a deep breath, forced a smile onto his face (which looked painful), and said, "Well. It seems we've got some work to do, don't we?"

The first thing he did was classify everyone into a voice category by listening to them sing as high and low as they could. Turns out that a lot of them had been singing in the incorrect category. When all was said and done, Alf was our lone tenor, Damien and Mr. Taylor were our baritones, Tom and Mr. Geddes were our basses, Della, Ms. De Luzy, Muriel, and Aggie-Ann were our mezzo-sopranos, Mrs. Beardsley was an alto, and Genevieve and Ariel were special.

Genevieve could sing so low that Mr. Y dubbed her a 'contralto' and put her in the tenor section, and Ariel could sing so high that she was the 'coloratura soprano'.

We made slow but steady improvements that night, and after we sang the song through the final time, Mr. Y had some announcements.

"In order to jump-start the money-flow and convince some more investors to get on board, we're going to put together a conceptual Phantasma, a demo, if you will, and perform our ideas to the public," he explained. "We need to sell our idea if we're going to get enough funding. We'll talk more about this tomorrow. Good night."

He left, and as the everyone began chattering excitedly, Ariel and I broke away by ourselves. We did that a lot. As we went through the main door, we caught a rush of a cool breeze blowing in off the sea, and once we were situated outside we admired the multicolored, glittering lights of Coney Island, seemingly in competition with the heavens above. On a night like this, it seemed that anything was possible. It seemed any dream, any magical inclination of our minds, any poem on our lips could come to life, become tangible, if only we wished it so. A night in which the earth and heavens seemed to come together, refreshing us and filling us with hope.

_"The time has come-the Walrus said-to think of other things!"_ said Ariel brightly, tossing herself down onto the grass. _"Of shoes and ships and ceiling-wax, and cabbages and kings! And while the sea is boiling hot-and whether pigs have wings-Kaloo kalay, we'll feast today like cabbages and kings!" _She grinned. "Doesn't this all make you think of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?_ Curiouser and curiouser!"

She was ever one for poetry. Books too. She was mad about books. I lay down next to her in the crumbly, scorched grass.

"Finally," she cried, "After all these years, Mr. Y remembered the promise he made us. We're going to be like _diamonds!_ At last! I hardly believed it at first, but now that we're actually singing and putting the plans into action..."

I remembered the night Mr. Y made that promise, that awful night she split open her palms with a knife. That was a long time ago. She was so young then. Hell, I was so young! Where had the time gone?

"And you're going to get your voice back, aren't you?" She lay close to me and gave the scars on my throat a little stroke. "He promised you. And he even mentioned it tonight!"

I hated when my voice-or lack thereof-was brought up, even innocently. It stirred up all sorts of horrible memories, memories of my degenerate, criminal life back in Italy that I had never shared with anyone, not even on paper. Even after nine years, vivid flashes of it would wake me out of a dead sleep and terrify me...

"I'm sorry," she said meekly. She knew me well. "I know you hate having it brought up. But it'll be fixed soon."

Back inside, somebody laughed. I thought I heard a clinking of glasses.

_Well, never mind, _I mouthed as cheerfully as I could, punctuating the movements of my lips with a form of sign language. _You're right. And what about you, Fabulous Miss Fleck? Ready to be an aerialist?_

Her mouth spread into a smile, but her eyes, which had suddenly become sad, infected her whole countenance with a spasm of pain. She twiddled the ring on her finger. My heart sank with shame. I mentally gave myself a good kick. It seemed that my remark, which was meant to be light-hearted, had unintentionally brought back some of her own worst memories.

"I'm ready," she replied, head bowed. "I'll do my very best. But I'll miss her all the time."

She was talking about her mother. I remember her, even now. Ol' Polly, we used to call her, Ol' One-Armed Polly, although her true name was Apollonia. She was an endearing lady, very beautiful, with a dreamy, sing-song voice (that must be where Ariel got it from) and great talent on the aerial hoop, but she certainly wasn't bright. She never seemed to truly comprehend anything. She was always lost in Polly-land, doing what she pleased, singing songs, crumpling things in her one little hand, tossing herself around on her hoop, talking to herself, and making off-color comments about Alf's skills in the bedroom at the dinner table. She couldn't read, either. Ariel and Alf had to read books aloud to her. She loved that. Yes, she was silly, but she was cute, and I never once saw her angry. "My fam'ly," she'd coo, hugging Alf and Ariel. "My lovely little fam'ly."

I recall someone-though I can't remember who-telling me that there had been a lot of inbreeding in her family, which resulted in her being one-armed and retarded, but Alf never mentioned any such thing, nor did he tolerate any suggestion that his wife was anything but a little silly. He loved her more than life itself. "She's not very clever," he'd declare stoutly, "But she's as coherent as anyone else." And Ol' Polly would be off in a corner, singing to herself and shredding a napkin into little pieces. She died on Ariel's sixteenth birthday last year in a really awful accident.

In the darkness my young companion regarded the emerald ring, her mother's last gift to her, which now resided permanently on her ring finger. "I wish she could've seen that sketch of me."

Inside, everybody seemed to be celebrating, but Ariel and I sat in silence under the stars. Tonight, they were like diamonds.

_**(Gangle ends the story for now.) **_

The clattering of the door in Mr. De Rossi's half of the room signaled that the hour was up, and in strode his guards. He must stop the story here for now.

"Hey, Whittington," Mr. De Rossi said seriously as he got to his feet, "Tell Miss Fleck to be safe. Look after her, if you can, and thanks for helping her out. I can't exactly prove it to you now, but I'm real grateful. The girl means a lot to me, you know?"

"You're very welcome."

"She's all alone in the world," he went on, his voice trembling and his eyes watering. "Completely alone."

"Not while I'm around. You can count me to help her," promised Mr. Whittington. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. De Rossi. We'll be seeing you again."

_"Grazie. Grazie." _

All in all, it had been a very successful interview. Rodger had filled several pages with notes, and as Haney led them back out into the daylight, he showed them to Mr. Whittington.

"Look at all that, Jay!" he gushed. "Ha! This is going to the best book ever."

"It's certainly shaping up to be that way."

Both men were glad to be out of that prison and back in the crisp spring air. The air had never seemed quite so refreshing. They had never felt so lucky to be walking about as free men.

"Ah!" sighed Rodger. "What a crackerjack of a day. Say, Jay, did you see De Rossi's face whenever he got on the subject of ol' Ariel? I betcha dollars to doughnuts he's sweet on her. Then again, if I were in the clink, I'd be sweet on any girl who stopped by."

"Well, if my dates are correct, he's known her since she was eight years old," replied Mr. Whittington soberly. "And if she was eight in 1897, then she's...thirty-two or thirty-three now. That's a long time to know a girl."

"Sure is. Uh, speaking of girls, I'm afraid you'll be eating on your own tonight. Me and my girl are going on a little spin around the city. She's got a new car, doncha know? A 1922 Ford Model-T! Canary yellow. It's a peach!"

Mr. Whittington smiled at the thought of Rodger and his perky little girlfriend, Bernice Fowler, speeding around Brooklyn in such a car.

"Well, that's alright, because you'll be getting your next day's breakfast and lunch alone. Miss Fleck and I have more talking to do."

"You do, huh?" Rodger grinned. "Tell me, how much does she charge an hour?"

"One turkey sandwich."

"Ha! That Ariel. She's a riot. Well, Jay, this is where I must leave you. See ya."

A handshake, two slaps on the back, and the two comrades went their own way, Rodger tripping off to an evening of high-speed romance with an aspiring Ziegfield Follies girl, and Mr. Whittington contemplating everything that Mr. De Rossi had said. It seemed that the prisoner really did think highly of Miss Fleck. There had been such a tender gleam in his eyes when he asked him to look after her, a genuine concern for her welfare. Mr. Whittington was glad that there was at least one man other than himself who felt like that.

Once home, he undid his tie and regarded his bachelor pad with a critical, discerning eye. Provided Miss Fleck accepted his invitation to stay over, where could he put her? She was a lady, and must have a private room with a door that she could lock from the inside. That was non-negotiable. Hmm. She would have to sleep in his bedroom, and he would sleep on his old red couch in the living room. That would be fine. After all the nights she'd spent on a boardwalk, he could certainly endure a couch.

What else? Well, she really ought to have some clean clothes. Ha! He had just the thing. Bernice had dropped off a sack of her old winter clothes with the request that he drop it off at the Salvation Army, a place he often passed. It was still sitting near the window. Thoroughly-modern Bernice's taste in clothing, with her insistence on thin straps and daring little frocks, would probably shock Miss Fleck's Edwardian sensibilites, but winter clothes were nearly always modest. There is only so much skin one can expose during cold weather.

And nourishment, that was very important! Poor Miss Fleck needed a lot of wholesome, healthy food, and no mistake! He had plenty of milk, bread, juice, and all sorts of reasonably healthy fare, not to mention the turkey sandwich he had promised her. Vitamins would be necessary too. Well! It was quite a job, taking care of a woman! But Mr. Whittington wanted so much to help her. After all, like Mr. De Rossi said, she was all alone in the world. Besides, he remembered that ancient command of old, _But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just. _How nice it would be to really help someone in need.

It was on this thought that Mr. Whittington meditated, until at last he retired to bed.

**NOTE FROM AUTHORESS: Thank you for reading "City of Wonders"! Won't you be my neighbor? Or better yet, tell me how ya like it? It will prevent me from spiraling into **_**"bad fanfic oblivion". **_

**1. Just so y'all know, I DO ALLOW anonynous reviews-this means that you **_**don't have to register with this site**_** to leave a review. Quite a few folks only allow **_**signed members **_**to review. I am not one of them. **

**2. I'm not even going to pretend I know anything about the prison system in the 1920s. **

**3. Because this site's PM system automatically breaks up links, I can't send bonus pictures for reviews anymore. On DeviantArt, I'm "littlelivewire", so head over there periodically. I plan to upload illustrations and crap every once in a while! **


	4. Mr Whittington Meets Mr Squelch

Chapter Four

"Mr. Whittington Meets Mr. Squelch"

When Mr. Whittington arrived at the old boardwalk the next morning, Miss Fleck was leaning against her fence with two grocery bags, her crutch, and a drawn, sick expression on her lips. There were dark circles under her eyes. The remnants of the previous night's drinking binge lay scattered and broken on the ground. The previous day's warmth had evaporated back into biting cold, and so she had put on Mr. Whittington's old scarf.

"G' morning, Misser Whittington," she mumbled, her face about as pale as the white scarf. "I've thought it over and...I guess I...wanna go w' you. Wanna...go w' you."

Mr. Whittington let out a sigh of relief and threw his arm around her. She smelled atrocious. "I'm so glad you do. Are these all your things? Are you ready to go?"

Her bloodshot eyes darted to her grocery bags. "That's...all of it. You got the sandwich?"

"Yes, I do. It's at my house. We'll have lunch there, and then we'll set you up, alright?"

"Right."

She didn't look very steady, so Mr. Whittington let her lean on him, and together they walked slowly down the boardwalk and onto the street, where they were met with interested stares.

"Did you see Greg' ry?" she asked after they had walked a respectable distance.

"I did," replied Mr. Whittington, remembering the anxiety in the man's eyes. "He was very kind. I think you're lucky to have a fellow who cares about you like that."

Miss Fleck's eyes suddenly teared up. "I...bin drinkin' again. He dun' like that. But I did anyway." She grabbed her companion, which caused her to stumble, and a tear rolled down one cheek. "Do...I look like I bin drinkin' again, Misser Whittington?"

"Well, just a tiny bit," admitted Mr. Whittington. She looked so pitiful that he couldn't bear to tell the truth."But never mind. Don't cry. It's all right now. We're going to have some lunch, alright?"

But she cried miserably the whole way there, as though he were leading her away to be executed. Strangers occasionally stopped to ask Mr. Whittington if she was sick and needed help; he thanked them but told them to go on. She continued to cry in the taxi that took them to the corner of Mr. Whittington's block.

"My...my Da-dee wouldn't...he wouldn't like it eee-vurr, Misser Whittington," she moaned incoherantly. "He didn' bull-eeve in alc' hol...but I dun' ever stop!"

As they climbed out-Mr. Whittington reassuring the driver that she was alright-he dug out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

"Hush. Calm down. We're here now," he said, making sure she was looking at him. "I'm sure your Daddy and Mr. De Rossi would be glad to know you're alright now, wouldn't they? See? Here's my house. Let's go in."

They ascended the little staircase, but as Mr. Whittington was pulling out his keys, Miss Fleck grabbed the handrail and swayed dangerously. The color drained from her face. He got behind her just in time to catch her, for she collapsed into a dead faint. As quickly as he could, he carried her into his living room and onto the couch, where she lay like a pile of rags with a white, white face, and he ran to get water.

Oh, why did he make her wait for the food? He should have brought it with him, and let her eat it immediately. Fool that he was! He scolded himself ruthlessly as he rubbed her wrists with the water, noting with alarm that her pulse was weak. She did not respond to his voice or his shaking. Quickly, he undid her coat and tossed it aside, and loosened anything that was even a little constricting, but she still did not come around. How frail and thin her poor body was! It seemed that fifteen years of starvation had finally crushed little Miss Fleck, all at once, and she was going to die here on his couch. His heart beat wildly. No! That couldn't happen!

Without even thinking, he ran to the icebox and got a cup of milk. He pushed it up to her lips.

"Go on, dear, take a sip. Go on, drink it. Please?" He looked desperately at the street and wondered if he should run for a doctor.

And then, to his great relief, her lips weakly began to suck a little sip of milk.

Mr. Whittington let out a long sigh of gratitude. "Yes! Good job, dear," he told her, as though she were a baby. "Keep it up."

She did keep it up. She kept drinking, more and more, her thin throat rippling with that good, wholesome milk, and as she drained the last dregs of it, her eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused as she looked around, dazed and dizzy. She licked a little drip of milk from her lips.

"Misser Whittington?" she mumbled.

"Yes, it's me, Mr. Whittington," he replied, the relief washing over his soul like a warm wave. "You're in my house now. You got sick for a minute. Are you okay?"

"I fink so."

In a moment of inspiration, he leaned over and kissed one of her dirty cheeks. "Thank God." He pulled himself together and rose. "I'm going to get you something to eat this very instant."

Out came the turkey sandwich. He broke it into bits and sat by her side, feeding her. She was too weak to sit up. It seemed that she had to concentrate all of her energy on the business of chewing and swallowing. Mr. Whittington patiently fed her, bit by bit, his mind reeling at would have happened if she had fainted the day before, when he was not there! As he grimly contemplated her malnourished face and rubbed her bony hands, it was clear to him that she would have died. If she hadn't been in his house when she suddenly took ill, she might have died before he could get help, and been buried in a common grave, and poor Mr. De Rossi would never know what had happened to her. The idea of how close she'd come to disaster amazed him. But he must concentrate on taking care of her now. Fate had made this his duty.

When she finally finished eating, her cheeks were slowly becoming pink and her eyes brightened. Her breaths were deep and steady.

"I feel better now," she said. Even her voice sounded better. It sounded as though her normal personality was coming back. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm...sorry I cried so much."

"Why, it's quite all right. Don't think about it any more."

"I guess I was feeling pretty bad about last night," she murmured glumly. "You see, I promised Gregory I wouldn't drink anymore. But I couldn't get any food, and the only thing someone left me was a case of liquor. I told myself I wouldn't do it, but I eventually cracked and drank every last damn bottle. Puked and fell asleep after that. Probably wet my drawers too, but I'm not sure. I think so."

So that was the atrocious odor that Mr. Whittington had smelled.

"And now," she continued, her eyes beginning to water, "Here I am, stinking up your house and disturbing your business. I'm real sorry."

"Please, please, don't worry about it," insisted Mr. Whittington. "Don't even think about it. I want to help you. You needn't worry that you're interrupting anything. Would you like more milk? I think you should just rest and eat today, and not do anything else."

Miss Fleck accepted more milk as Mr. Whittington explained where he was going to set up her things, and where she could bathe, and the clothes he would give her. She seemed genuinely baffled by his interest in her welfare, but smiled in weak gratitude nonetheless.

"If my Daddy could see this," she said, "He would be so happy."

Mr. Whittington had a feeling he knew the answer, but hesitantly asked the question anyway. "Is your father...?"

She understood. "No," she replied sadly. "No. He's dead. But if you want, you can see his part of the story."

This was not the reply Mr. Whittington had been expecting. "Really? How?" he asked.

"If you go into my second bag," replied Miss Fleck, rising on her elbows and pointing, "You'll see a leather book. That was his journal. He wrote all about Phantasma, and my Mama, and everything. You can read it while I nap."

The journal was right where she said it would be. Mr. Whittington gave Miss Fleck a blanket to nap with, and sat down beside her to read yet another take on the Phantasma story.

_**(Mr. Squelch's journal begins.)**_

Well, if I am to start a journal, which I've never done before, it seems reasonable to start it off with my reasons for doing so and a little Fleck history.

MY PURPOSE: To keep track of all the extraordinary goings-on, ever since Mr. Y set his plans for Phantasma into action.

FLECK HISTORY: I am Alfred Ivan Fleck. My birthday is January 3rd, 1857, so as of right now I am 49 years old. I am a widower; Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau, my wife of 21 years, passed away last year. I have only one child, a daughter whom I love dearly, called Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck. (Frances and Lavinia were her grandmothers) My parents were Estevan and Lavinia Fleck; they are both deceased now. They had five children, all boys, and I am the youngest. In order: Edgar, Charles, Wilbur, John, and Alfred. All of my brothers are deceased now, except for Edgar. I am the only son who ever married.

My father told me that my grandfather was part of a Hungarian freakshow. Our last name was "Felek" then, but when he was sold to an American freakshow, the immigration officials botched the name up and turned it into "Fleck". Skeletal deformities run in my family. My father, my brothers, and I were all born with twisted spines or disfigured limbs. My mother was born with an extra leg. My wife had one arm. My daughter, Ariel, was born with her left leg twisted and bent backwards, but her spine is fine. I have been in freakshows ever since I was born, just like my father and grandfather before me. I even helped to build parts of Coney Island, carrying supplies on my back. I bet I can carry anything.

THAT SAID, I BEGIN.

Well, it's Christmas Eve, 1906, as I write this. From where I'm sitting in our little eating-area, I can see my daughter, Mr. De Rossi, Mr. Y, and the Pennysworth siblings decorating a Christmas tree with popcorn. Mr. Y is quite the perfectionist, the way he keeps adjusting everything. That slob Damien keeps eating the popcorn that Ariel is trying to string. I've got a half-mind to say something. Ah, never mind. Genevieve is beating him with a giant candy-cane. Our little suffragette has got brass in her to make a pair of candlesticks, and no mistake!

De Rossi 's helping Ariel pick up the slack by stringing on the other side. He can't talk, but he's still a reasonable fellow. He's taught Ariel a lot of Italian, and over the course of these many years they've become great friends. He was also a tremendous help during our first year without Polly. Poor Ariel was taking her mother's death very badly, but somehow, even though he couldn't speak, he helped her get through the grieving process. I'm so grateful. I wish I were through it. I guess I'll always be mourning to some degree, even if my year of wearing black is over. Anyhow, I'd trust Mr. De Rossi anywhere.

What a year 1906 has been! My little girl is practically a lady. Seventeen! Next May, she'll be an adult! In in a couple days, I'll be fifty. Half a century old, for Pete's sake! Where'd the time go? Ha! Aggie-Ann has just come in to inform us that the automaton nativity scene is acting up. Apparently one of the wise men keeps whacking Virgin Mary in the head with the frankensence. Blasphemy! Off goes Mr. Y now to fix it. He is very particular about his automatons!

These past six months have been something else! It feels almost like a dream. The ultimate Phantasma is not open yet-it won't be until next year-but the foundations have been laid, the streets laid out, and the structures are due to go up the moment spring rolls in. We've been financing it with "Phantasma 1.0", as we call it amongst ourselves, with help from the money-wise Girys, Mr. Y's helpers. Rather than flaunt our deformities for money as we did before, we showcase our talents and sing songs. Mr. Y is probably the most accomplished musician I have ever seen. He's composed a theme-song for Phantasma called "The Coney Island Waltz", and it's unbelieveable to me how he managed to think something like that up. One day he just sat down and wrote out a bunch of sheet-music. Just like that! That man is a genuis. I always knew it!

_Ariel_ has been doing _aerial_ acrobatics in Phantasma 1.0, just like her mother used to do. _(By the way, I maintain to this very day that her name was a complete coincidence! I found it in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"!)_ It's so beautiful to watch. I wish Polly could see. I can't believe she's been gone for a year and half now. This is our second Christmas Eve without her. A lot less painful than the first, but still, I can't help organizing my life into two sections: the time was Polly was alive, and the time she wasn't. It's as though a line was drawn the day she died, forcing everything to be defined around it.

We've gained a lot of investors, thanks to Phantasma 1.0. The whole notion of taking freaks and helping them develop marketable talents is an idea that, interestingly, has never been attempted before. If nothing else, we're selling our idea on sheer curiosity; it's nothing if not original! Even if freaks aren't the public's cup of tea, a City of Wonders with every imaginable entertainment has simply got to sell. Mr. Y has such excellent business sense. At first, I thought he was getting unreasonable with his crazy ideas, but I guess I take it back now.

Ah! The automaton nativity scene is fixed. Turns out Aggie-Ann was positioning them wrong. You'd think a body with two brains could have figured that out. Ha! But I am ever fond of Ms. Hansel (Hansels? This confuses me to no end.). They are respectable and reasonable. Talented, too. Mr. Y is teaching them to play the banjo. They have to work together very precisely, Aggie controlling the frets and Ann doing the strumming. He's even teaching them to sing in harmony as they play, Aggie singing alto, Ann singing soprano. Listening to them is a real treat. They're going to sing carols tonight.

Oh dear. The conversation has turned to me and my writing. They're calling me Alfred Lord Tennyson-Fleck. Ariel is laughing at me. She wants to write something. _MERRY CHRISTMAS DADDY AND A HAPPY '07! AS EVER, ARIEL! _ Well, she got that out of her system. Oh dear again, now Mr. Geddes is taking pictures with his camera. I suppose I must say cheese. There! Ugh, I don't like flash powder. Where was I? Well, I was on the subject of our talents. So Aggie-Ann is doing the banjo, Ariel's doing acrobatics, Genevieve is doing contortionist tricks, Damien's doing fire-eating and fire-breathing, Three-armed Della is doing juggling, I could really go on and on.

Automatons, too! Mr. Y has single-handedly built a whole slew of automatons. Famous folks from history, fantasy creatures, and even a chandelier made of of talking Medusa heads! There's also a curly-haired lady in a gold dress who can walk about-I don't know who that is. She's got a little container she stays in. There's also a walking automaton of my own little Ariel. She's cute, in a fake, robotic way. And she's not a very good listener. Once she just kept walking into a wall until Mr. Y had to shut her off. He keeps the automatons in storage now, but he'll eventually install them in the Ayrie. I can't wait to see that get built.

As a matter of fact, I can't wait for tomorrow: Christmas Day! Mr. Y specifically told me, De Rossi, and Ariel that he has "special gifts" for us. Everyone is getting gifts, but ours are "special". I keep thinking of that sketch of me-"The Mighty Mr. Squelch". I wonder if the gift will have anything to do with that. Also, he says that the three of us are going to have special duties, too. That's also a surprise for tomorrow. I declare I haven't been this excited for Christmas in years.

Ah! They're bringing out the eggnog now. Soon we'll be having a fine meal, and... what? Oh, for Pete's sake! Damien just poured a whole decanter of brandy into the eggnog! How do you like that? Doesn't he think of anyone but himself? How unreasonable of him! I absolutely detest alcohol. The smell, the taste, the effects on the constitution...I think it is just vile. It ought to be illegal. Now I can't drink the eggnog. If he and Genevieve start smoking those loathsome cigarettes as well, I'm going to have a fit! On Christmas Eve! For shame. Hmm. Well, it seems Genevieve is having a lollipop instead. I'd sooner see her rot her teeth out than to smoke...or worse, go off on another of her rampages. I think it would be fine for women to vote, but gee whillikins! All this parading around and making a production about it is most unattractive, and certainly not nice! I thank God that Ariel doesn't bother with it. She is very good. Always has been.

Speaking of Ariel, she's pulling out a big book.

"Say, Ariel," Mr. Geddes says, "Are you going to read to us to-night?"

"Indeed I am," she replies. "I'm going to read _The Night Before Christmas _after dinner. We'll resume _Mansfield Park _tomorrow."

She's our intrepid little reader. Reads to us every night. I don't want to brag, but my daughter is among the most accomplished speakers I've ever seen. Crisp, clear, excellent diction. It's all those years of reading to her mother that taught her that. Poor Polly, she could never read. But how she loved being read to!

The Christmas tree is complete! It looks very cheery. Mr. Y seems pleased with it, but he's got to run off to the next order of business: the glass one-horse open sleigh! We're all going to ride in it tomorrow. Aggie-Ann is tuning the banjo. The Pennysworths are headed out...and Genevieve just slapped Ariel across her rear again. It seems to be her way of saying hello and goodbye. I don't like that. I think it's bizarre. But ha! Ariel just slapped her rear in revenge, probably to disguise her embarrassment.

It seems that the festivites are going to begin in full swing soon, so that's all I'm writing today.

_(At this point in the journal, it seems that Mr. Squelch has tucked in some relevant newspaper clippings, with such headlines as "Mysterious Mr. Y To Open Phantasma Next Summer", and "Rehabilitated Freaks To Feature In 'Phantasma'." and "Former Freak Purchases Coney's Sideshows." and "Daughter Of Former Greek Aerialist To Star In Phantasma".)_

_**(Mr. Squelch's diary concludes here for now.) **_

Mr. Whittington looked up from the journal, letting his mind absorb everything he'd read. At his side, Miss Fleck lay wrapped in his blanket, sleeping peacefully on the couch, her color hearty and her breathing steady. A star-shaped clock over his door informed him that it was two o' clock in the afternoon. Two o' clock already! He decided to let Miss Fleck sleep while he set up her things in the spare room and made lunch. He took a piece of paper from his typewriter and marked his place in the journal.

Setting up the room was short work. Miss Fleck barely had any possessions. Her two grocery bags were filled to the brim with stacks of old photographs, some in frames, some without, some yellowed, some wrapped in paper and twine. He decided to leave them be in the bags, lest he cause any damage. His little room was plain, with only a bed, a dresser, a mirror, and a wash-stand, but it was clean, and a great deal better then a cold, dirty boardwalk. He was just airing out the linens when he heard a weak sing-song voice saying something.

"Yes?" he called, coming to the door.

Miss Fleck was sitting up, still wrapped in the blanket, a nervous expression on her face. "I hate to be a pain," she said, blushing embarrassedly, "But drinking all that milk is making me really have to..."

Mr. Whittington needed no further explanation. He helped her up, being mindful of her bent leg, and directed her into his bathroom.

"Perhaps after this," he suggested, making sure she was situated, "If you want, you might like to have a bath...if you want it, of course."

"No need to stand on ceremony with me, son," she reassured him, her old dry humor back in full force. "Just say, Get it in the tub, slob! I'll understand. Now hurry out of here before I wet myself for the second time in 24 hours."

Mr. Whittington chuckled with amusement at how quickly she'd recovered as he went about, throwing a lunch together for the two of them, a pleasant affair of canned chicken soup and tomato salad. It seemed that she could bounce back from anything. Still, he must make certain to give her plenty of healthy food, and vitamins too. He'd buy some the next chance he got.

He heard the toliet flush, and then Miss Fleck's head poked through the door.

"That's a relief!" she sighed. "I thought my bladder was going to pop. Er, I think I'll take a bath now. Can I have the clothes bag? And how do you work this bathtub?"

Mr. Whittington filled the tub with warm water while Miss Fleck went rummaging through the bag of Bernice's old clothes. She sat cross-legged on the sea-green tile, her countenance cheerful as she examined the stylish little garments, as enthusiastic as a child on Christmas.

"Gee!" she gushed. "They're all so _clean!_ Pretty flashy, though. My! Look at the cut on that neckline! Bright red, too! In my day, we wore more underwear than that! Daring, isn't she?"

"Indeed," chuckled Mr. Whittington, seeing Bernice clearly in his mind's eye. "She's quite the little flapper. Hopefully you'll find something suitable."

"Ooh! This one's nice. And so is this one! Hmm. Do I like blue, or brown? I didn't guess I'd ever get a choice! Hey, there's even one of those sporty little cloches in here..."

"Well, I'm sure you'll look fine, whichever you choose," said Mr. Whittington. He turned off the tub. "There. All filled up. I'll just leave you to it, then. When you come out we'll have lunch."

She took her sweet time, which was understandable, because she hadn't had a warm bath in fifteen years. Mr. Whittington was dishing out the lunch on two plates when he heard the slurp of the drain, some fumbling, and the rattle of the bathroom's doorknob.

"Everything alright?" he called.

"Yes!" came Miss Fleck's voice, and then she emerged, clean, damp, and rosy.

Without her usual layer of flith, her skin was very pale, her hair was black and wavy, and her countenance was greatly improved. Mr. Whittington was amazed at the transformation that a mere bath had wrought. As for clothes, she had selected Bernice's two-tone lounge dress, a smart affair of blue and grey wool that had a fashionably dropped waist, an ankle-grazing skirt, and nice little snaps at the wrists. Despite her handsome array, however, she looked faintly embarrassed.

"Do I look okay?" she asked timidly, a pink spot blooming on each cheek.

"You look very nice," Mr. Whittington assured her, smiling. "Sit down and eat!"

She didn't need to be told twice. Away she went, slurping soup, chomping tomatoes, and loudly praising everything.

"Gee, Mr. Whittington, you're a real sport!" she chirped. "I've never had such fun. Yesterday I was a piss-scented bum, rolling through broken bottles, but look at me now! I'm fashionable! Why, that Bernice girl gave me everything, even one of those new-fangled brassieres that squeeze your tits flat! And this soup! And these tomatoes! And..."

She continued in this way for some time, but eventually the subject changed to her father's journal.

"You read about the Christmas Eve of 1906, did you?" she inquired pleasantly. "I've got photographs of that in my bags. Let me dig them out for you."

They sat down together on the old red couch, and Miss Fleck went deftly through the variegated piles of old photographs, leaning slightly on Mr. Whittington. Her skin was still moist and soft from her bath. When she chuckled or squeezed closer to him, a warm, powdery sort of smell puffed out of her.

At last she found her picture. She smiled at it tenderly. "Here's my Daddy. This is the snapshot Mr. Geddes took of him."

And it was. The lighting in the room had been a bit dark at the time of photographing, but Mr. Whittington could clearly see the hunched, tattooed form of Alfred Fleck leaning over his journal, pencil still on the paper, looking up with a wry smile. There were Christmas decorations behind him. This must have been just after he wrote, _Oh dear again, now Mr. Geddes is taking pictures with his camera. I suppose I must say cheese._

Miss Fleck also pulled out a photograph of herself and Mr. De Rossi. They both held candy canes and were grinning cheekily into each other's faces. On the bottom of it, Mr. De Rossi had written, _12/24/1906, __L'ultimo giorno del silenzio._

"The final day of silence," Miss Fleck translated. "That Christmas Eve was the last day he had to endure without a voice. We didn't know it at the time, though. I'll tell you all about our Christmas tomorrow."

Mr. Whittington remembered Mr. De Rossi's little trumpet-like device, which made him think of Mr. De Rossi himself.

"You know, Miss Fleck," he told her, "You're very lucky to have a fellow who cares about you the way he does."

She smiled and gazed out the door into the street, as though she were seeing him. "I know. He's very precious to me. You know, I've got a lot of photographs of him and I in these bags. We did all sorts of things together. I bet they'd look great in your book."

They spent a long time looking at the photographs together. Miss Fleck sat plumped up on the couch, eyes shining, her life's pictoral history spread out across her lap. Mr. Whittington watched her as she talked and sorted. He compared this thirty-something year old Miss Fleck with the young lady in the photographs. The pain and hardship of being a crippled, homeless orphan had taken a visible toll on her face and body, but it had not taken away the tender beauty of her eyes, or the dignified tilt of her chin. It seemed that something infinitely greater than himself or Mr. De Rossi was upholding her, preserving her, not letting her give up, leading her to people who wanted to help her.

It was with real regret that he had to leave her and go to dinner. He had promised Rodger and Bernice.

"Don't worry, Mr. Whittington," she said pleasantly. "I'll be fine. I ought to wash your bathtub anyway."

He blinked. "Wash my bathtub?"

"You'd better believe it." She propped herself up on her crutch and headed for the bathroom. "If you saw the way that bathwater looked after I bathed in it, you'd say, 'Clean it up, slob!.' So that's what I'll do."

Mr. Whittington shook with laughter for a moment. She was so concienscious; it was cute. "Alright then, ma'am. But be careful, and don't tire yourself out. I'll bring home some dinner for you."

"Thank you very much," said Miss Fleck, her voice echoing off the bathroom tile as she turned the tub on. "Oh, and don't bother calling me ma'am. I guess you've earned the right to call me Ariel. You can even call me Slob if you like."

"Very well, _Ariel._ In return, you can cell me Jay."

"Okay, Jay! Hoohoo, that rhymes. Have a good time!"

And off Mr. Whittington went down the street, tugging his coat and scarf closer around him as he went, for tonight seemed destined to be particularly frigid. As he went along, his breath steamed around his face like fog. The other people on the steet were making a point to hustle to their destinations, and even the light underneath the street lamps seemed to be vibrating with cold. Freezing though it was, however, Mr. Whittington felt a definite sense of relief. Miss Fleck was warm and safe in his house.

At last the familiar painted sign with its golden letters appeared through the mist. THE GYPSY CAFE, EST. 1907. Through the doors, down the stairs, into the flashy, smoky, music-filled room, and the bottom of the stairs stood Rodger Garland and his girlfriend, Bernice Fowler, who was vibrantly attired in a big fur coat and a shining turquoise cloche that was pretty against her reddish-blond curls.

"Right on time, Jay!" crowed Rodger approvingly. He looked particularly jolly in his smart coat and some fashionably baggy Oxford trousers. "What did I tell ya, Bernie? Right on time, that's the way they do it in Europe!"

"Europe nothin'!" Bernice's face was rosy with rouge, nestled in her big fur collar like a berry. "Not based on what my little sistah's been tellin' me. But good evenin', Jay. It's always a pleash-ah!"

Off they went to a booth, ordering ham, fried potatoes, and apple pie. Rodger had a big portfolio with him, filled with pictures and things to show his friend, but Bernice dove right into the latest news about her younger sister, Rita.

"She's a Fowlah again!" she announced, the crystals on her wrists clattering about. "Just divorced that Tom Flit fella. Told her never to trust a Frenchman. Nevah! Now she's workin' for someone in Paris. She's evah one to bounce back, my Rita! But whatta 'bout you, Jay? I he-ah that you're interviewin' Miz Fleck, that lady bum who's always makin' a spectacle of herself. Kinda like Charlie Chaplin, but not as funny. How's it goin'?"

Mr. Whittington wished she could see how very unlike a bum Miss Fleck could be, under better circumstances. But he just smiled and said, "It's going very well, Miss Fowler. She's very cooperative."

"That's a relief. Rog told me that she threw a rock at him once. A rock! She could-a really hurt him! Well, at least she's civil with you. Oh, and did ya drop off my old clothes at the Salvation Army, Jay?"

He smiled. "Technically."

As they ate, Rodger pulled out some old snapshots that his father had taken at Coney Island, and the evening was spent poring over them. They were mainly shots of the actual park, not home photos like Miss Fleck's. It was interesting to see how the different places corresponded with some of the places in her shots of herself and her friends. For the rest of the evening, Mr. Whittington actually found himself wanting to go right back to his new room-mate. Rodger and Bernice's frivolous yapping about divorces and dances seemed so out of place, especially after he'd spent the day saving a life and reminiscing with Miss Fleck about another time in history, when cars were a recent invention, the world had never seen a World War, and women still dressed with some semblence of propriety.

It was with a feeling of true relief that he bid Rodger and Bernice goodnight and headed back to his rented place, a take-out box of food in hand. He and Miss Fleck could eat and talk some more.

But as he went up his stairs and approached his door, he heard Miss Fleck's voice. It was throaty, full of pain, moaning something. Was she hurt? He rushed in to find her unharmed, but hugging some photographs to her heart, tears dripping down her thin cheeks.

"Oh!" she gasped upon seeing him. "Oh, never mind, I'm..." Here she started mopping her face-"I'm fine. I'm really fine."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes." She swallowed and smiled a little. "I was just doing the Orthodox prayer for the dead. I do it every night for Mama and Daddy. I usually don't get all shaken up, but I was feeling so grateful for...everything, and I thought about how they were probably near me, helping me."

Mr. Whittington sat down beside her, and patted her back. "I bet they are."

"I also mentioned Mr. Y and Gustave, tonight," she added softly.

"That's very nice of you. How does the prayer go? If you want me to, I can pray for your parents as well."

"Oh, would you?" she said, her voice trembling with gratitude. "That would be so great. Well, it goes like this: _Into Your hands, O Lord, I commend the souls of Your servants Alfred and Apollonia Fleck, and beseech you to grant them rest in the place of Your rest, where all Your blessed Saints repose, and where the light of your countenance shines forever. Amen. _You see, Jay, it helps them somehow. And I don't have to have a dime!"

It took Mr. Whittington some time to memorize it, but he did, and promised that he would do it. Thus promised, the two of them ate their ham and potatoes, a reverent quiet more profound than idle chatter over them.

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS: **

**1. I am Christian but NOT Greek Orthodox. For the purpose of this story I've done research and made every attempt to portray their traditions accurately, but if I've made a boo-boo somewhere, please inform me. **

**2. Apollonia is pronounced Apple-LOW-nee-yuh. Just in case it bamboozles you. **

**3. Thank you for reading "City Of Wonders"! **


	5. The Selection of the Trio

Chapter Five

"The Selection of the Trio"

Mr. Whittington awoke to the tantalizing smell of cooking bacon. When he opened his eyes, he was right where he had fallen asleep last night-on his old red couch, and when he looked towards his eating area, he saw a rather perky-looking Miss Fleck at the stove, clad in an apron, humming to herself as she pushed the sizzling bacon around with a spatula. Beside her was a bowl of hard-boiled eggs and a pitcher of juice. When he sat up and stretched, she smiled shyly. Her complexion was looking better already. The rosiness of her cheeks was accentuated by the rose-colored caftan she'd chosen from Bernice's clothes bag, making her look like a painted porcelain doll.

"Good morning!" she chirped. "Just thought I'd do something to earn my keep. And how fun it is! The last time I cooked food on a stove, Roosevelt was in the White House, a glass of Coca-Cola cost a nickel, and I had all of my teeth. And by the way, it's snowing."

"Snowing?"

Mr. Whittington looked out the window, and to his great surprise there were little white flakes blowing across the gray tableau of a typical Brooklyn morning.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Miss Fleck as she put the eggs and juice on the table. "It's snowing today, and the next part of my little narrative picks up on the greatest Christmas I ever had. Here, Jay, help me drain the fat. Got any old milk bottles?"

He did, and after they drained the bacon fat into them, Miss Fleck fastened the caps and put them aside with relish.

"There! Now you can flavor anything you like with that. Green beans, potatoes, you name it. I ought to make you hot potato salad sometime. But for now, we've got a breakfast to eat. Tuck in!"

For someone who hadn't cooked since 1907, Miss Fleck's culinary skills were surprisingly good; Mr. Whittington felt as though he were at a free diner.

"Now, that Christmas," she began, "Started out quite a bit like today. Cold, snowy, the works. As I hustled into my dress, I could hear everyone else banging around, hollering greetings and putting their shoes on..."

_**(Miss Fleck's story continues.)**_

It didn't take me and Daddy long to get ourselves together, and when we were through we grabbed our coats and wraps and headed out into the frosty, flake-filled Christmas morning. I had to be very careful because of my crutch. For a moment I was blinded by the brightness, but then I made out the swaddled forms of our other freak friends, making their way to Mr. Y's little home.

"Good morning to ya, Flecks!" called little old Mr. Geddes wheezily through his scarf. "Merry white Christmas, although I'd gladly trade the snow for some dang sun!"

"Good morning, Alf, dear," Mrs. Beardsley greeted my father.

And then Aggie-Ann came sliding by, both heads singing the happy refrain, "Joy ta t' world, the Lawd hath come! Let earth re-seeve 'er King! Let e-e-evr'y hea-a-art prepare him roo-o-om..."

"If the Lord really has come, you're bound to scare Him back away with your caterwauling!" crowed Damien around a glowing cigarette, and Genevieve, her impressive hair topped by a fur cap, cackled with amusement around her lollipop.

"Aw, Day-mee-in, yer just sour apples, ain'tcha?" growled Ann, but Aggie-Ann went sliding on with no further comment.

Coney Island was a blue, frozen fairyland, wreathed in whispering piles of whiteness. Everything was closed up. The roller coaster tracks were glazed with ice and trimmed with hanging icicles that made me think of a cave. The concession stands were boarded over. The snow piling on their roofs made them look like sparkling little gingerbread houses. Up ahead was Mr. Y's place, and as we drew near to the modest door, Mr. De Rossi suddenly accosted me from the behind.

"Oh!" I cried in surprise as he grabbed me, and all at once I found myself nestled against his warm jacket, with his pleasant face laughing silently at me. I grabbed his lapel and pretended to slap him.

_Buon Natale to you, too! _he mouthed cheekily, pretending to be injured.

"Merry Christmas there, Ee-talian!" chuckled my Daddy. "Ready to find out what Mr. Y's surprise for the three of us is?"

He nodded excitedly and held open Mr. Y's door for us, bowing.

Once inside, the first thing I noticed was Mr. Y's Christmas tree. You couldn't miss it. It stood impressively against one wall, its wandering, metallic branches spreading all over the place, blending beautifully with the tinsel and hangings. It was not a real live tree, but it was alive in its own way. Little automaton birds popped out and danced about, lights sparkled, elves handed each other gifts, and a tinkly tune filled the room with a sense of real Christmas cheer. There were piles of presents under it. Mr. Y, donning his usual smart suit, sat proudly in a high-baked chair. Behind his mask, his eyes were both light-hearted and deeply contemplative as he nodded his Christmas greeting.

"Oh, Mr. Y," exclaimed Genevieve, her throaty voice full of admiration, "How _glorious! _I declare you've outdone yourself! Oh, Damien, isn't it just _too much?" _She jammed her lollipop back in her mouth.

"Too much," echoed the brother in obedience. Disagreeing with Genevieve was never a good idea.

"Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Y," growled my Daddy politely, sitting and rubbing the knees of his trousers, which always got wet when he crawled in the snow. "I guess I haven't been this excited for Christmas since I was a little boy!"

Mr. De Rossi and I sat down on a bench, nodding our shared agreement.

"And I guess you have good reason to be," replied Mr. Y mysteriously. "But we ought to have something warm to drink before we open presents. Is everyone here? No? Well, we'll start passing out the cider anyway."

The light in the fireplace cast a lovely warm glow over everything and everyone as we drank mug after mug of that excellent warm cider. As we drank, the rest of us wandered in and were similarly seated and treated. Then, to our great surprise, in walked Madame Giry and Meg, arms filled with gifts. We looked at each other. Since when did they celebrate Christmas with us? They hadn't ever bothered before.

"Joyeux Noël!" bubbled Meg with uncharacteristic joy as her mother smiled a creaky, underused smile. "Joyeux Noël, Monsieur Y!"

Meg's beautiful blond hair was waved and gathered into a bun that was glittering with jewelled hairpins, but her eyes shone brighter as she looked at Mr. Y. Her cheeks flushed. It seemed as though she were awaiting a critique or something. Beside her, Madame Giry exuded a sense of cautious optismism, her dress a muted shade of green. It sure beat her usual black.

Mr. Y nodded at them, looked around, and then he spoke. "Merry Christmas to you all!" he said. "Now, without further ado, I shall be presenting everyone with their gifts, one at a time. The Flecks and Mr. De Rossi, however-" Here he gestured to us, and my heart leapt-"Will be getting their gifts last. They have special gifts."

A rumble of wonder, and then out came the gifts!

For Aggie there was a treasury of hymns, arranged for the banjo, and for Ann there was a big, handsomely-bound Bible. Their eyes were perfectly round as they accepted them into their respective hands. One head giggled with joy at the music while the other started flipping through the Bible, but both of them were just ecstatic. It made me smile.

"Oh, thank ya, Mister Wah!" cried Aggie. "We'll be sharin' these nice things, o' course."

"O' course!" seconded Ann.

For Genevieve there was a red silken shawl covered with a pattern of branches, flowers, and nightengales that made her shriek in delight. She pronounced it "utterly too-too" and tossed it about her shoulders. Her brother recieved a set of quality fire-eating torches that would be very beneficial to his work. His flame-seared lips smiled in gratitude.

For old Mr. Geddes there was a pair of stilts that he leapt onto enthusiastically; we all laughed uproariously as he padded about at a height he'd never dreamed possible, until he collided with the ceiling lamp. Then they had to be put away.

For Mr. Taylor was a fine robe, tailored for his height. Della recieved a pair of satin gloves-of course, Mr. Y had to buy two pairs to accommodate her third arm. There were two painted fans for Mrs. Pritchard, a bag of new earrings for Tom, and a clever braiding tool for Mrs. Beardsley. Mr. Y had built it himself. All one had to do was push the little button, and the little steel arms did the braiding! Legless Ms. De Luzy got a little spider-like device that enabled her to walk about without help. She was thrilled. No more being carried.

Meg Giry became the proud owner of a long, gauzy red scarf embroidered with roses. It was as light as air, soft to the touch, truly exquisite against her golden hair. She trembled with delight as she recieved it, and gasped something in French to Mr. Y that made him smile and nod. As for Madame Giry? Mr. Y gave her a nice, but practical gift: an ivory hair-reciever. Being a more practical than sentimental woman, she was very pleased.

"And now..." said Mr. Y, looking towards me. "For Miss Fleck."

I was a properly-raised (as far as circus freaks go), seventeen-year old young lady, but I couldn't stop the grin that almost busted my face in half as Mr. Y ducked into a big bag, like he was Santa Claus or something. My father and Mr. De Rossi patted my back, just as excited as I was. Everyone else leaned forward in their chairs.

"And here it is!" announced Mr. Y, taking out a handful of what appeared to be scrap metal. "Now before you all get to thinking it's a pile of garbage-" For our enthusiasm sort of died at the sight of it-"Let me demonstrate. Miss Fleck, show us your bent leg."

As I had done in the freak show for countless years, I tossed up my skirt to expose my wool-stockinged bent leg, with the malformed knee cap-or lack thereof-that made it go backwards and sideways.

"What I have for you, Miss Fleck," said Mr. Y, kneeling, "Is a brace that will force your leg to bend the right way. Your knee has no ability to support itself, so this will hold it in place. As you can see, this thing requires some assembly, but you'll learn to manage it alright. Here let me show you."

"Wait a minute," piped up my Daddy. "Are you saying that she'll be able to walk around like a..." He struggled for a way to put it nicely and failed. "Like a normal person?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Y.

There was a murmur of amazement as he began attaching the brace to me with bands and screws, brow furrowed in confident concentration. Me, my Daddy, and Mr. De Rossi exchanged incredulous looks. The man couldn't really be serious, could he? But on and on he went! I felt my leg being bent into a normal position (did that ever feel strange!) as thick bands of metal were screwed snugly around my it, and the bands were connected to one main splint that jointed at the knee. At last it was all assembled. I looked like I'd become half-automaton. My whole bad leg was covered in metalwork. Mr. Y snapped some thick rubber bands on it that forced my knee out, and he was done!

Mr. Y extended his hand to me, his face gleaming in triumph. "Alright, smooth your skirt down, and I'll help you stand up."

Up I went, crutchless, leaning heavily on him. My father trembled visibly. All eyes were on me.

"Now, I'll keep supporting you, but let's take some steps. Ready?"

I extended my good leg, and then, as I extended my braced one, I felt a fluid bending motion that let it go forward, and I took a completely normal-looking step.

The room exploded into applause, like I'd won a marathon.

"By the nation!" cried Mr. Geddes. "Look at that!"

My Daddy's eyes were the size of dinner plates as I got excited and started walking about faster, in circles, and at last Mr. Y let go of me, letting me walk about on my own, unaided, going from smiling face to smiling face. I could scarcely believe it.

Neither could my Daddy. "I can't believe it," he said, his tattooed face almost blank with disbelief. "I can't believe it. Look at her! Look at how perfectly...Mr. Y, that is amazing!"

Mr. De Rossi couldn't talk, but he silently cheered and clapped when I curtsied to him.

"Oh, Mr. Y!" I cried, hustling over to where he stood proudly smiling. "Thank you! Thank you! This is _wonderful!" _

"You're welcome," he replied simply. "Now, would you like to see what I've got in store for your Daddy?"

Did we ever! If Mr. Y didn't have our interest before, he sure had it now. Into his big bag he went, and he extracted more metal pieces. This one looked almost like a metal spine and a ribcage, fastened with pulleys. It was another brace. Daddy looked a little afraid as he examined it.

"It's not as painful as it looks, I promise," reassured Mr. Y. "In fact, it shouldn't be painful at all. Let me explain. This cage-looking part is going to get fastened around your torso, and these pulleys are going to gently pull your back a little straighter than usual. It would be impossible to pull you perfectly straight immediately, and it would be dangerous, too. Your back muscles are too atrophied to support you and your spine correctly. We must go very gradually."

And so away went Mr. Y again, kneeling beside my Daddy like he was working on a car in a garage. On went the cage, and then the fastening of each individual "vertebrae" to a "rib", until Daddy was encased in metal. He looked nervous, so I patted his shiny head.

"Alright," said Mr. Y at last. "Now I'm going to retract the pulleys a little."

_Swiff! Clack, clack, clack!_ said the brace as Mr. Y gently let them pull Daddy up a couple degrees.

"Feeling alright, Mr. Fleck?" he asked. "Feeling dizzy?"

My Daddy looked like a dog being hoisted onto his hind legs, the way his eyes darted about. "I feel a little funny," he admitted. "But it doesn't hurt, and I'm not very dizzy." He breathed deeply and smiled a little. "I'm not using to seeing at this height when I'm sitting!"

"By spring," declared Mr. Y, "You should be completely straightened and able to walk about like your daughter."

To a man who had been crawling for almost fifty years, this was unbelievable-almost scary-news. It even made my mind reel. Daddy, not crawling? That was almost like imagining Daddy with no tattoos. It practically made him who he was. We had old photographs of me as a wrinkly little baby, sleeping on his bent back while he read books. I rode around on him when I was a toddler. We'd always had to keep things at his eye level. This was all going to change! I hugged Daddy and kissed his head.

We were still murmuring at the wonder of it all when Mr. Y looked at Mr. De Rossi very significantly.

"I have saved the best for last," he announced with glee. "For our mute Italian friend is about to get his voice back."

The eyes of our "mute Italian friend" widened. My breath caught my throat. Get his voice back? Me and him looked at each other, at a loss. I'd never been able to imagine what my best chum's voice would sound like. It just seemed impossible. High? Low? Did he have an accent? I was going to find out!

For the third time, Mr. Y leaned into his big bag. At last, he withdrew a little gold trumpet. It looked as though he'd plucked it off of a tiny Victrola. It had a rope on it.

Mr. De Rossi accepted it as though he were taking the Holy Grail.

"Here," explained Mr. Y, touching his throat. "Is where your vocal cords used to be before they were severed."

There was a low gasp when we heard that. His vocal cords had been severed! That was why he could never talk! He'd never told us before. But who had done that to him? At any rate, that explained the scarring at his throat...

"Now, all you have to do is press this up against that spot. This is designed to pick up on the varying vibrations in your breath when you use your palate to make sounds." Mr. Y pressed the trumpet to his throat. "All you have to do is act like you're talking normally, and this device will do the rest. Here, take it."

He looked afraid.

"Don't be nervous. Just try making a vowel sound. Like ahhh."

He cleared his throat and pressed it to the scarred area. We leaned forward, breathless. You could've heard a hair drop.

The sound was masculine and distinct. "Ahhh."

My heart jammed right into my throat. It worked! It worked! We all laughed and gasped nervously. Mr. De Rossi almost dropped the trumpet in astonishment as color rushed into his cheeks.

"Good job. Now," said Mr. Y, grinning. "Say your name."

Mr. De Rossi's voice was dark, a blend of Brooklyn and Italian accent that thrilled me. "G...Gregory De Rossi."

The walls vibrated with the wildness of our cheering. You'd have thought we won the lottery. Mr. De Rossi barely had time to gasp before he was smothered in congratulatory hugs and kisses.

"Good Lawd!" cried Aggie-Ann. "Good Lawd!"

"Oh, Damien! Can you believe it? I declare I can't believe it!"

"Nor can I!"

"Oh," I cried, so happy for him, "Your voice sounds...just right for you!"

"Congratulations, De Rossi," said my father, slapping his back. "Congratulations."

Our "no-longer-mute Italian friend" was momentarily overwhelmed and had to wipe his eyes, but he smiled radiantly and shook Mr. Y's hand so hard that his whole body vibrated.

"Grazie, Signor Y," he said with his newly-restored voice. "For remembering your promise." The Italian words sounded so lovely. It made my heart flutter.

Mr. Y bowed his head graciously.

"Get him something to read!" clucked Genevieve, swinging her arms about. "Get a book, or something!"

"He can use our Bah-bull!" cried Aggie, and she brandished her new Christmas Bible. "Ya can read somethin' outta here!"

And he did! He flipped it open to Genesis, and away he went with those familiar words, "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth..." We all sat around, amazed, hanging on every word. It was like a church where people actually paid attention.

After a chapter or two, he stopped reading and decided to re-introduce himself to everyone. We got in a line, and he went down person by person, shaking their hand and greeting them.

"Hello, Mr. Y. Hello, Ms. Pennysworth. Hello, Ms. Caine..."

At last he reached me. He took my hand, kissed it, looked tenderly into my eyes and said, "Hello, Signorina Fleck."

I can't remember if I cried, but I know that I snuggled into his jacket and hugged him for about a half hour while everyone clucked and cooed.

"And so," came Mr. Y's voice through the hubbub, "My Trio has been fitted with their devices!" Before we had time to be confused, he grouped my Daddy, me, and Mr. De Rossi together, looking at us approvingly. "For you see, Phantasma will be a big operation to run. I'll need three trusted helpers to spend part of their time in the Ayrie, keeping affairs in order. In addition, I won't always be available for issues of public relations, or promotional stunts, or overseeing things. I need a Trio to do that, and here they are."

Everyone clapped-a bit jealously-for us, particularly the Girys. (Meg gave me a funny little look.) We clapped for ourselves, feeling numb at all the wonderful things that had happened on this Christmas morning. For what felt like the ten millionth time, we thanked Mr. Y, only to recieve the same modest nod.

"Now," he said, looking at his pocket watch. "I understand that those religious among us have church services to attend. Off you go. Non-believers, follow me to the dining hall and help me set up!"

And so it was that everyone-except for the Pennysworths and Mr. De Rossi-headed off to church. Boy, did I have a lot of things to thank God for! It always sort of hurt me that Mr. De Rossi never bothered with church, especially now that he had so much to be thankful for. In those days, church was something you did regardless of whether you actually believed or not, because it was a sign of respectability. To not go was to say that you didn't give a damn what anyone thought of you, sort of. Well, it couldn't be helped. We piled into Mr. Taylor's car and took off into the frosty Brooklyn morning.

We had a funny saying among us religious freaks: _Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right! _ That's because we all parted ways at the corner of 5th and Main; all the Catholic churches were to the left, all the Protestant ones were to the right. Daddy and I went left with a few others, but instead of stopping at the Roman Catholic place, we went a little farther to St. Anastasia's, the Greek Orthodox cathedral in which Daddy and Mama were married. On went my black chapel veil, and in we went.

Once seated, Daddy closed his eyes and seemed to suddenly become very sad.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" I asked.

"I was thinking," he replied softly, lifting misty eyes to me, "Of how much your Mama would have loved to see her baby walking." He swallowed and looked down. "And me."

I looked at my emerald ring and my throat suddenly got a big lump. I hugged Daddy. "But she did see. She saw everything. Don't be sad, Daddy."

But a big stupid tear already went down my cheek. I knew how Daddy felt. It was true that Mama could see us from Heaven, but he wished he could share in her happiness. What would she have said? Would she have laughed, or gasped? Would she have-as she did once at Thanksgiving-get over-excited and scream, _Happy Anniversary? _She felt so far away.

"I'm not sad," Daddy replied. He lifted his eyes to where he and Mama had been mystically made one in matrimony, and smiled bravely as though he could still see it. "I'm still just so grateful that she chose me."

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After that wonderful Christmas, life was like a roller coaster going ever upwards. Daddy's back was looking straighter every day, I could walk and run without reserve, and my dear Mr. De Rossi could talk-and talk, and talk, and talk. He had something to say about everything. It had been so painful for me to see him frustrated and angry, unable to express himself, but now the words, English and Italian, flowed from his mouth like water from a thawing glacier. We got to know each other even more.

Speaking of thawing glaciers, that winter was a pretty short one, and the moment it thawed into spring construction began on Phantasma immediately. And I really do mean immediately. One day Daddy and I awoke to a great rumbling, like an earthquake; as we hurried into our parlor/kitchen, our wall-hangings and photographs were vibrating.

"It's like an invading army!" cried my father, dashing to the window. He was a little boy during the Civil War. I don't think he ever truly accepted the fact that it was over.

But it wasn't an invading army-at least not a hostile one. It was a small army of construction workers, ready to get moving on Phantasma! Following them were a whole slew of other performers: trapeze artists, animal trainers, dancers, you name it! In less than a week, the brick roads were laid, and by March, the buildings were going up, including the tall spire of the Ayrie. Public interest was wild, and in poured the investors. Madame Giry and Meg really had their hands full.

As our impending debut drew nearer and nearer, me and my other fellow athletic freaks had serious training to do. On the aerial hoop set up in a nearby training gym, I practiced all of my mother's old tricks, including the ones she could never do with one arm, like the upside-down split. The choreography had to be very precise; I was working with two trapeze girls, and I also had to practice the "peacock fan" trick with a big sheet.

Daddy, thoroughly straightened, proved to be ridiculously strong. Half a century of dragging himself-and sometimes me-around gave him some powerful arm muscles. He spent a lot of the day lifting weights like they were twigs. He even playfully picked me up once. You'd better believe I took care not to anger him after that.

Meg Giry and a handful of dancers were promised their own routine by Mr. Y. As a matter of fact, she was planned to be a major attraction-the "Ooh-La-La Girl!" You should've seen her costume. It was beautiful. It was elaborate. It came with a feathered headress. It covered no more than her breasts and bottom half. One day she went strolling past my Daddy. The man almost fell over. At lunch, he and Mr. Geddes had an intense conversation about "women today".

Genevieve had to train hard too. Sometimes in the break between routines I'd just sit and watch her. It was mind-blowing how she could contort her body. With no tools other than a mat and her raw flexibilty, she could lay on her stomach and bring her whole body up over her head, so that her rear was nestled in her up-do and her legs were out in front of her face. Today she was doing a handstand whilst putting her feet on her head. I was coming down off my hoop.

"Say, Ariel," she called, walking about on her hands in that funny pose, "You've become really excellent at that hoop business. Just like your ma. Poetry in motion!"

Despite the fact that Genny was what my Daddy called "not nice" and her outspoken tenancies, I always found her to be quite friendly in a cavalier sort of way. She seemed to make a point to be sweet as sugar to all women. Men? Forget it.

"Thank you, Genny," I replied. "And look at you! You're a human pretzel."

She unfolded her body and stood up straight. "Harder than aerial acrobatics and a hell of a lot less pretty. Anyway, you're turning eighteen pretty soon." She grinned. "Ready to be a legal adult?"

"I think I am." The thought was a bit daunting. "But...it feels pretty fast. My mother was already married by the time she was eighteen."

"It ain't a requirement, you know," Genny said slyly, unwrapping a new lollipop.

"Oh, I know that," I said. "To be perfectly honest, I do not think I shall ever marry."

"Really?" In went the lollipop. "Not even among our kind?"

It was a given that a freak had basically no chance of marrying unless it was to another freak, and the vast majority of our kind never did. Without knowing it, we'd been born into a virtual cloister. Early on, I had accepted the fact that I would likely live the life a little old maid, caring for my parents until they died, and now that Daddy was all alone, I felt my responsibility even more keenly. Poor Daddy, who sometimes cried nights for Mama. No, I wouldn't-I couldn't-leave him to marry anybody. He would be so lonely.

And so it was with conviction that I answered, "No, Genny. I don't think so." And then I added, "I don't need a husband to be happy. I'm not that sort of girl."

Genny approved of my reasoning heartily, although my reply initially surprised her. "Oh, I'm not suggesting that..." she quickly insisted, smiling, "I'm not suggesting that a woman needs a husband to be happy. Banish the thought! That's a fine decision you have made. A fine one! A _reasonable_ one, as your father would say!"

I laughed. Yes, that did seem to be my father's one-size-fits all term of acceptability.

"Speaking of your father," she went on, "Once you're a grown woman, you won't have to listen to that old Puritan anymore. You can do what you want!"

"I...don't understand you."

"I'm not saying you have to declare all-out war on the guy," chuckled Genny, "In his current body-builder state, I'd certainly refrain from pulling any nonsense. But by Golly! We never get to _do_ anything together. I've always got to be content with Della all the time. She's okay, and her extra arm comes in handy when you've got picket signs to carry, but she's not you! I _like_ you!"

"And so do I," I replied sincerely, "But my Daddy...well, he thinks you're..."

"A slob," finished Genny frankly. "Don't spare my feelings, I can take it. Your Daddy hates my guts."

True as it was, it almost sounded like a lie when it was worded like that. "Hates your guts?" No, please, it's just that-you know, back in his day..."

"Ah!" sighed Genny. Out came the lollipop, and she thrust it about like a pointer. "Ah, yes. Back in the gay old 1870s. And now he resents me because I don't subscribe to that patriarchal, backwards, medieval bunk and knit all day. What a drag!"

When she got like this, it was best to divert her with a little humor. "But I'm good at knitting," I said wickedly. "What do you say to that?"

The humor worked. "I say you're a goose. But wait, Ariel dear, I need to ask you a question. What is your favorite flower?"

"Red roses," I replied. "The ones that seem to have black blushing around the edges." I had seen them once in a big glass bowl. I never forgot them.

"Naturally! Red roses would look utterly marvelous with your face. Oh, yes, there couldn't be a nicer combination. Alright, I'll remember that!"

By now, we had walked out of the training gym and were about to part ways.

"One last thing, Ariel. Ever since Christmas, I've been wondering about that friend of yours, De Rossi. Mr. Y mentioned that his vocal cords got severed. You're always with the man; do you think you could wheedle him into telling you how that happened?"

"I really doubt it," I answered automatically, seeing Mr. De Rossi in my mind's eye. "He absolutely hates questions like that. They make him angry."

"Well, I declare!" snorted Genny. "I don't see how he has the right to march about like a man of mystery. Mr. Y, too! We don't know dickens about either of them! One's from France, one's from Italy. That's it! Well, if you manage to make any discoveries, do tell."

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It turned out that each of us freaks had been fashioned with characters to portray in addition to our costumes. Shortly after changing out of my gym clothes, Daddy and Mr. De Rossi showed me some papers Mr. Y had written up for us. He was pretty keen on creating the Phantasma illusion. The papers said:

Miss Fleck: During his travels, Mr. Y had the good fortune to stumble across a most marvelous photograph opportunity: a flock of peacocks! He had scarcely erected his tripod, however, when he found himself looking into the eyes of a strange young lady with a twisted leg, who fancied herself queen of the peacocks. Her true identity and how precisely she came to live among peacocks the world may never know, but Miss Fleck's skill in all things aerial intrigued Mr. Y greatly, and now she seems content to call Phantasma her new home, provided she is never far from her beloved birds nor is tethered to the ground.

Mr. Squelch: While stopping off by an Indian incense market, Mr. Y was interested to hear the tale of a renowned strongman who had covered himself in serpentine tattoos. It seemed there was nothing he couldn't lift, but when he tried to budge a golden statue of Shiva the Destroyer his back was terribly bent. Never one to miss a beguiling opportunity, Mr. Y made a visit to the injured Mr. Squelch. So desperate for a cure was he, that he promised to swear his loyalty to whoever was able to help him. The rest, as you can see, is history!

Dr. Gangle: Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Gangle is a real criminal-or perhaps we ought to say "former criminal". After a fateful encounter with a sword-wielding hero, his throat was slit and his voice destroyed. Thoroughly humbled, Dr. Gangle resigned himself to a life of honest labor, assembling mouse traps, despairing of ever having his voice back. Enter Mr. Y, who met his greatest challenge yet: restoring a lost voice and rehabilitating a criminal! Nowadays, Dr. Gangle is a perfect gentleman, and as you can hear, has a very loud voice!

Clever, hmm? We got a good laugh over those, and when the others got theirs, we were even further amused. There were some pretty funny ones. Genny and her brother were described as being unloved half-siblings of a demon-which explained the contorting and fire-eating-and Mr. Taylor's height was supposedly the result of a tragic accident involving a barbaric game of tug-of-war. Mr. Geddes was the son of gnome, off to seek his fortune, Ms. De Luzy had selflessly given to her legs to some starving wolves, Mrs. Beardsley had grown a beard to sneak into her late husband's Lodge Meeting, Tom was a former jewel-thief who loved showing off his stolen booty, Mrs. Pritchard was a mysterious tattooed medicine woman, Della's third arm was a gift from a Hindu god, and Aggie-Ann had been fused together by God when the orphaned sisters prayed never to be forced apart.

"I guess we'd better start calling each other by our new names," reasoned Mr. De Rossi. "From this point on, I'm Dr. Gangle!"

"And I'm Mr. Squelch!" added my Daddy cheerfully.

I shrugged. "And I'm still Miss Fleck."

"Nothing wrong with that!" Dr. Gangle said, pulling my collar. "It sounds good with our names, _Signorina."_

From where we stood we could see the half completed dreamworld of Phantasma: the scaffolding around the buildings, the fresh earth being overturned for the gardens, the fountains being dug out. Over in a studio, Mr. Y had hired some artists to paint the promotional banners. The air was filled with the warm, acrid scent of fresh earth and new paint. There we stood, the Trio, watching our world come to life.

"I can hardly believe this real," my Daddy said after a long silence. He was standing straight, proud, not a trace of his former disability showing, save for the metal brace, just visible under his jacket. "If someone had told me ten years ago I'd be walking upright, and my child would be walking beside me without a crutch in a big fantasy land where we both had headlining acts, I'd have told 'em to get their _unreasonable_ head out of Cloud-Cuckoo Land."

I brought Mama's emerald ring up to my lips. "No more cages for the Fleck family anymore, hmm, Daddy?"

"Nope." His arm slid across my shoulders as he looked back over Phantasma. "Not anymore."

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I never breached the subject of severed vocal cords to ol' Gangle, knowing very well that he would lapse into a hostile silence and change the subject. Instead, we got into a Mr. Y conversation one day, as we were sitting on a bench, watching the stars together. We did that a lot. Nobody else appreciated stars the way we did. Genevieve inevitably became bored within minutes and would begin yapping about current events, Aggie-Ann always began a sober discussion on the end times, and Daddy got too emotional. The sight of the glittering heavens made him think about Heaven, and God, and Mama; a few minutes of star-gazing was a surefire way of getting him to go inside, light a candle by Mama's picture, and pray the Prayer for the Dead until the tears slid into his tattoos and he was exhausted.

"I ponder long the velvet, jewelled night, and dreaming, speculate upon the stars," I quoted quietly, for the sky reminded me of a poem. "What lies behind their diamond points of light, that beam so kindly on this world of ours?"

"Mmm," hummed Gangle in appreciation. _"Questa poesia è bella, Signorina." _

I had a feeling he'd like it, but didn't say so. We never needed to say things like that to each other.

"Say," I ventured, "Don't you find it funny how Mr. Y knows just about everything about us, and we know nothing about him? All these years, all these plans...and he's a mystery to us."

He stiffened. I was treading on dangerous ground.

"I no know anything about-a him," he eventually said, his English suddenly lousy and his Italian accent very thick. That always happened when he got mad or emotional. "Everybody ask me, and I tell-a them same thing. I not hiding anything."

"Very well, Signor," I hugged his arm. "I was making a statement, not a inquiry. Don't be mad."

"I no mad."

"You are indeed. Just listen to your accent."

There was a proud, intense little silence.

Moments like this made me want to nail him. _"Mi dispiace!"_ I cooed, knowing that properly-spoken Italian always loosened him up. "Never mind Mr. Y. For pity's sake, you get so easily flustered. Let's look at the stars some more, and shut our traps before we lose our tempers."

We did for a little while, but then, suddenly, he blurted, "Ah, what means 'flustered' in Italian?"

"It's another way to say 'completely wonderful'."

"You lie to me." He turned, a big merry grin on his face. "You almost grown woman, and you lie to me. Soon I not be able to call you _Signorina_ no more, and you lie. This is very great shame. I tell-a your father."

I bopped him over the head.

"Ah! And you hit-a me also. Queen of Peacocks!"

"Mouse-trap builder!"

"Chicken!"

"Snake!"

He grabbed me. "Snake? Last straw! I no stand-a for this!"

And so the stars were ignored as Dr. Gangle and Miss Fleck went to (friendly) battle, poking noses, grabbing collars, and trying to jam tickling fingers into armpits. This insult/battle routine was a common fixture of our strange relationship.

"Ahahaha!" he eventually cried, caving, "Ah, no more!"

"No more?"

"No more!" He settled back onto the bench. _"Oh, madre di Cristo, Signorina. Te voglio bene. _You make-a me happy."

I made him happy. That was one of those unspoken things we both knew, but when he said it out loud like that it hung really awkwardly in the air. It seemed only polite to reply to it.

"You make me happy, too," I replied, returning my gaze to the stars.

The murmuring chords of a piano became audible. For a full minute I didn't think about it. I imagined, dreamily, that the stars were making some sort of celestial music, but soon it occurred to me that something else was making music. Whatever the music was, it was perfectly suited to the night! Beside me, Gangle stirred.

"You hear that, too?" I asked him.

"I do. That's Mr. Y. At night, he likes to play the piano in the dance hall. Nice music, hmm?"

Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows how I feel about live music, and so up I went from the bench, Gangle in tow, and we snuck to the side of the dance hall. It was like a barn. We sat beside a crack in the door and listened, smiling at each other like we were getting away with something. But soon we concentrated on nothing but the music.

The piano, cheap though it was, sent forth heartbreakingly tender notes under the expert hands of Mr. Y, and before long I felt my throat swelling. The music was almost like a living thing; when it was loud, it was making a declaration, when it suddenly grew soft, it was pleading. I felt like it wanted something of me. And all at once Mr. Y sang along to it.

_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_

_Helpless to resist the notes I write _

_For I compose the music of the night. _

The music of the night! Yes, that's what it was. It was exactly like the night. It was perfect. My heart thumped, and all at once a hot tear burned in each eye.

"Signorina," I heard Gangle whisper in concern, but I waved him away. I snuck closer to the door crack.

There, just visible in the soft lamp-light, was Mr. Y at the piano. He was tall and straight, and dressed in his usual suit and mask combination. His arms and fingers flew effortlessly around the piano. He did not seem to need to concentrate. There was no sheet music. The music of the night was flowing out of his fingers and singing through the piano, as natural as the whistling of the wind when it blows through the trees.

Mr.Y! It seemed that a day could scarcely pass without me becoming more impressed with his genius, and tonight he was winning me over-mind and soul-with his music.

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar..._

Music strikes you deeper than anything in the world. It defies language barriers. It defies your reason. When it is done as Mr. Y did it, it defies your consciousness.

"Signorina, you don't look well..." I heard Gangle say, but I shushed him again.

I looked at Mr. Y. For the first time, I noticed a great many pleasing things about him: the intense gleam in his eye, the strong line of his jaw, the capable, skilled fingers, like great instruments. A sensation in my body like the licking of a flame leapt up and grabbed me. I felt as though the vibrations from the piano were travelling along the floor and running up and down my spine, infecting me with a marvelous pain. It did not release me until the last note hummed and died.

The next thing I knew, I was back at the bench again. I don't know how I got there. Gangle was looking at me, an expression slightly deeper than concern in his eyes.

"You okay?" he asked, his accent thick. "How you feel-a? I sorry to pull-a you away, but you no answered me, acted crazy, like you about to cry. You okay?"

"I'm fine." My voice sounded bizarre to me.

"Too much-a night air," he said grimly, coming to that peculiarly Victorian conclusion. "I put-a you to bed."

He escorted me home to Fleck Manor, but as I passed through the room of framed ancestors my heart was aching. A nameless hunger was consuming me. The music of the night had filled me with an earnest longing that I could not identify, let alone satisfy. That Mr. Y! Perhaps everything would be better in the morning. Somehow, the sunlight has a way of shutting up one's moonlight desires.

As I undid my brace and prepared to toss on a nightgown, I looked in the mirror and gave my pale, unclothed body a long once-over. I don't know why I did. I guess I half expected to see my strange emotions, bubbling just under the skin, but all I saw looking back at me was a naked freak-girl, with pale skin, pink-tipped breasts, and a long, long mane of black hair. On went the bleached tent of a nightgown, and then I hobbled to bed. I completely forgot about my prayers.

The candle next to Mama's picture was out, but it was smoking. Daddy was asleep. Gently, I laid myself down beside him and resolved not to think about the music of the night-or Mr. Y-for the remainder of the evening.

And so it was that I thought the music of the night-and especially Mr. Y-for the remainder of the evening.

_**(Miss Fleck's story stops here for now.)**_

When Miss Fleck at last cleared her throat and stopped, all that remainded of the breakfast were the dregs of the juice and a broken piece of bacon, sitting in a little pool of solidifying fat.

"When are you seeing Gregory again, Jay?" she asked.

"Next chance I get. Tomorrow, if I can manage it. It depends on whenever Rodger has an hour to spare. He's a reporter for the _New York Times,_ you know."

"Well, when you do, I've got a letter you can give him." Miss Fleck ate the broken bacon and stared absent-mindedly at her plate for a moment. Then she looked up. "I saw him three days ago. But, still...how did he look when you saw him?

"He looked reasonably healthy, if that's what you're asking."

Her eyelids drooped as though she were suddenly tired. "I don't really know what I'm asking, actually." And then she rose heavily, looking over at the bedroom. "I should take a nap," she added abruptly.

Mr. Whittington insisted she drink a little milk first, and after she obediently drank a glass she retired to bed. Despite the fact that it was still morning, sheer anxiety lulled her into the deep sleep that she hadn't had the night before.

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:**

**1. Do you like? (That's not really a note...) I liked writing this chapter very much. It came naturally. **

**2. FUN FACT: I should mention that "Aggie-Ann Hansel" is a character based on the real-life conjoined twins Abigail and Brittany Hensel. I threw in a Southern accent and a generous helping of religious piety, for humor. **

**3. Genevieve is a hoot to write. She's one of my favorite characters. **

**4. Thank you (again) for reading "City of Wonders"! I'm pretty partial to it. **


	6. Opening Day

Chapter Six

Opening Day

"How's Ariel? You feeding her right?"

Mr. Whittington and Rodger had managed to find an opening in their respective schedules, and now they sat interviewing Mr. De Rossi again, who was far pleasanter than he had been the first time they met.

"She's eating like a champion," Mr. Whittington assured him, smiling. "Milk, bread, vegetables, she eats it all. Ate three cinnamon buns and two bowls of cold cereal in front of me at the breakfast table. She'll be as wide as she is tall soon."

Mr. De Rossi nodded approvingly. "Better than too skinny. My mama always said skinny is bad for the blood. Ariel would be a beautiful fat girl. Don't discourage her eating!"

Rodger frowned in confusion. Miss Fleck wasn't eating at Mr. Whittington's house, was she?

"Don't worry. I make certain to give her plenty of food. Vitamins too, although last night she threw them up. I'll have to work her up slowly; it's too much nutrition all at once."

"Of course."

Rodger was about to ask Mr. Whittington what his plans with Miss Fleck were, but the man went right into updating Mr. De Rossi about how far the story had progressed, and without further ado the prisoner continued.

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

It was May 31, 1907, the day before Phantasma's opening day. Funnily enough, it was also Ariel's eighteenth birthday. I was walking down towards the complex where Fleck Manor was, birthday present in hand. Mr. Y couldn't come. He was too busy. What once had been a long trek across a dusty ghost town of faded stands, crumbled grass, and discarded wrappers was now a pleasant walk down a cobblestoned street in Phantasma, the completed City of Wonders. My walk was lined with rosebushes, and off in the distance the rest of the place stood majestically, empty, full of anticipation. It was a city that seemed to contain all the wonders of all around the world: crystal fountains, a restaurant that looked like a Roman Colosseum, pavillions, gardens...a year ago this has been a field with three barns and a housing complex!

The housing complexes had not been changed. They still stood where they always had, but now they were enclosed by a towering stone wall with a gate, which I presently passed through. Even if I had forgotten where the Flecks lived, I could have simply followed the party sounds and smells, right to their open door. A moment of blindness because of the outside light, and I was in.

Fleck Manor still smelled like 600-year old pouporri, but now the scent was mixed with that of popcorn and frying meat and candy, and the walls of grim ancestors were fluttering with giddy little decorations. All of my freak friends were having a gay old time, shoveling buffet-style food onto plates, bopping balloons around, and fussing over the phonograph machine, with its music cylinders. Currently playing was Ada Jones, of whom Ariel was a rather big fan, singing with Billy Murray about being "honeys". Speaking of Ariel, I couldn't see her. She must have been surrounded.

The moment I regained my sight, I was looking into the curlicued face of Alf, who had strode over.

"Good afternoon, Ee-talian!" he chortled like Father Christmas. "Good afternoon indeed! Here, give me that present, I'll pile it here with the others..."

In all the years I knew Alf, he never once pronounced "Italy" or "Italian" correctly. I think I even mentioned it to him a few times, but he never remembered. Anyhow, my modest box joined the merry little pile of bows and tinsel on the nearby parlor chair, and Alf, as happy as a clown, turned to me again. I'd never seen the man like this. Usually he just sat, slightly hunched, with an "I-don't-want-to-be-a-burden" expression on his face. Today he was downright jolly.

"There. Now you'll want to greet the lady of the hour, of course," Alf almost sang. "She's just over there. Ariel! Mr. De Rossi's here!"

A handful of fluttering eyelashes turned in my direction, and the committee that had been obscuring her from sight parted to reveal Ariel, the birthday girl, dressed in a beautiful little confection of ivory and white lace, her black hair waved and pinned into a cascade of braids. I remember that she greeted me, and I ate some food, and we may have played some sort of party game, but all I can remember now is that I was completely smitten with her. Everybody else at the party just sort of contributed to the ambience. I think that is how it always is when a man loves a woman.

As of the day of the party, I had been secretly in love with Ariel Fleck for almost two months. Of course, I certainly loved her longer than that, but love is scarce to be pinpointed. Who knows when love begins or when it starts? One day, it's simply there, and wastes no time in seizing full control of you.

It had come upon me on that night, when she and I were watching stars and had heard the distant strains of Mr. Y's music. The stars were shining in her half-closed eyes as she dreamily listened, a perfect peace upon her brow and the moonlight making her gleam, making her one with the night. All was white and dark blue, except for her plump little lips. They were pink. They were precious. Just a moment ago, they had said, _You make me happy too._ I longed to kiss them. And in that instant, right at that precise moment, my heart said, _Ariel, you make me much happier. You make me happiest! _(bad English?) _I love you. _

I didn't know what to do, so I didn't do anything. I just sat in silence, grateful for the dark, for my cheeks were flaming and my heart was pounding and I was reeling at my own revelation. I stirred.

"You hear that too?" she asked suddenly.

I trembled. Hear what? Not my heart! Ah, ah, the music! "I do," I said, trying to sound conversational. "That's Mr. Y. At night, he likes to play the piano in the dance hall. Nice music, hmm?"

I watched her listen to the music, the sliver of light from the dance hall sending a glowing line from her head to her knees, and in that light I saw the tears illuminated in her eyes, the dewy color rushing to her face. Her hands clutched her skirt. I thought she was becoming ill, but whenever I tried to say something she waved me away and kept listening.

It was like Ariel and the music were having a conversation. When it rose and swelled, she shivered and breathed like it was bearing down on her. When it was soft and tender, her eyes squeezed shut with something like grief, and her stiffly-corseted bosom rose and fell feebly. As her friend, I felt obscene watching my beloved Ariel feeling this intensely, but as a man I was intoxicated. It was like the ecstacy of Saint Teresa; it was tortured, and fervent, and burning, with a fierce undercurrent of sexuality. Ah, the magnificence of womankind!

But it soon faded into quiet, and all at once, she slumped into my arms as though spent. A single tear bubbled out of each eye. Looking down at her white face, my heart thumped. I felt as though I were holding something holy. It was an epiphany.

And now, at this birthday party, I was presented once more with my dreamy-eyed angel, who was now on the brink of adulthood. Eighteen! Eighteen little flames perched atop her big white cake. We all sang:

_Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday, dear Ariel..._

_Haaappy birthdaaaay tooo yoooou!_

A burst of appluase as she reduced the flames-and her childhood-into little wisps of smoke, and cheered. She was now a grown lady. Alf kissed her. Damien tried to start up the _Are you one? Are you two?_ gimmick as the burnt-out candles were plucked, but Genevieve elbowed him in the gut. Thus began a mad dash for cake and ice-cream, followed by the mad dash for presents.

As I said before, I don't remember much of the party, so what gifts she recieved I don't recall. I only remember mine and Genevieve's. After unwrapping a whole slew of cutesy doo-dads, Genevieve's gift was really a stand-out: it was a jewelled pin, designed to adorn the throat of a blouse, and it was cunningly made into the likeness of a red rose, with delicate little petals that were blushed with black. Her favorite flower. She was thrilled, and pinned it on that very minute, tiliting her head to show off the charming effect. Beautiful! She kissed Genevieve on the cheek. That was easily the finest gift in her menagerie. That is, until she opened mine.

I had scoured New York City, but I had been successful, and when Ariel tore the tissue paper she screamed in delight. The room aahed in admiration. I smiled widely. My trouble had certainly been worth it. For in her lap was a glass bowl filled with her favorite black-blushed roses, and for what I paid for them, they were something that a princess would have been pleased to wear. Ariel snuggled the tender blossoms to her cheeks as though they were her children, and a sublime rosy glow filled her cheeks.

"I love them," she cooed, the light on the glass throwing rainbows across her throat. "I love them. Thank you, you _darling!" _

_Her darling!_ My insides did a somersault, and I enjoyed a full fifteen seconds of joy before my reason kicked in and reminded me that she was speaking from her delight, not sincerity. Still, to be called _darling! _I should get her roses every day. Genevieve looked at me like I was a rat fink.

You might wonder why, now that she was a grown woman, I did not take Ariel away to some quiet garden and tell her all about my love. I had a variety of reasons, but one was foremost: Ariel was (and still is) such a rare breed of lady. My efforts to describe her invariably fail. She is dreamy, and intense, and scathingly witty, and...I want to say Victorian, but I don't think the Victorian era saw anything quite like her.

Imagine with me, _por favore_, a room of women. Hear them chatter about trifles, see their sporty little get-ups, smell the artifical garden on their pulse points. Now, see Ariel, sitting nearby. See her lily-white face, the raven hair, and the deep, daydreaming emotions in her eyes. See how she seems to drift like a little spirit, but never gives the impression of detachment. Her thoughts are too deep; you cannot understand them, so you mustn't try, yet you feel as though you have known her for a thousand years. You leave her, but she never leaves you. That is how I describe Ariel.

As I stood there at that party, watching her caress her beloved roses, I felt as though I had offered tribute to a Greek goddess, a priestess, a representation of sacred femininity. That said, now you can understand my situation. How could a man like myself become any closer than a mere worshipper? Did I even dare to do that?

In Italy, I did not have any respect for women at all. _"Use them like a hanky and toss them out", _that was my motto, and one that I followed like a religious precept. My nights were filled with wine, smoke, licking lips and stroking thighs. Find a large pair of tits, talk to her nice, take her home. _Bang bang,_ said my headboard as the sheer vigor of my love-making-if so self-obsessed an activity could ever be called that-caused the owner of the tits to slam into it. A wild ascent into oblivion, and then send the hated creature away. Then a spark, a flame, a wisp of smoke, and then I would lay grinning, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. _Sono stato Maestro. Ero il re. Ero Dio._

Then the unfortunate event, the flight from Italy, the entrance into the freakshow, and all of a sudden Don Juan had no sex life. It was maddening. You'd think such tribulation would drive me to contemplation, or even God, but it didn't. I was even angrier than ever, and now with no voice to express myself, my soul was nothing but one livid shriek. My fellow freaks were frightened of me. They had stereotypical notions about Italian men, and I reinforced every last one: the arm-waving, the fury, the dramatic behavior. The only one I wasn't was religious. Yes, they feared me, and I did not care. I did not want to be one of them. I stayed because Mr. Y promised to restore my voice one day, and give me a job.

I remember meeting Alf and his wife for the first time. It was after my first dinner as a "freak", and I was staring up at the were very polite, and addle-brained Polly was quite adorable, even sexy, but I did not show any emotion. I glared at them until they felt awkward and went away. I did not belong in a freakshow, making friends with these bizarre people. I didn't belong in Italy, either. I continued to stare at the moon, but all at once it swam and blurred, and an awful hot teardrop hit my throat.

"Hello," said a little voice.

I coughed and wiped my eyes. When I regained my sight, I saw a little girl with a crutch. She had a malformed leg, pale baby skin, and black hair tied with a big organza bow. She had a little doll.

"Hello," she repeated, limping over and sitting on me. "I'm Ariel. Why are you sad?"

I was a hateful grouch, but I couldn't bear to be mean to this pretty little girl. Not when her eyes were watery like that. I smiled and shrugged.

She nodded as though I had recited a whole monologue. "Sometimes I'm sad, too." She held up her rag-doll. "This is Barbara. She's sad because she's a cyclops."

It was true. The doll had only one button eye.

"But we can be friends because we're both freaks. See? I have a backwards leg, and my Daddy's like a bear, and God ripped my Mama's arm off. He didn't want her to be born, and He tried to hold her back, but my grandparents wanted her more, and her arm got ripped off. God almost stopped me from being born too, but my parents pulled so hard that my leg only got busted; it didn't rip off."

And so she went on and on, telling me the whole mythology behind the Fleck family, until at last she was sitting in my lap with Barbara.

"Say!" she eventually chirped, eyes illuminated with a discovery. "Did God try to stop you from being born, too? Did he rip your talking-box out on accident?"

It's a good thing I couldn't talk, or I may have hurt her feelings with a bitter laugh. The last time God and I had a talk, I was halfway across the Atlantic Ocean with Mr. Y, and I had flung my rosary overboard, followed by a gob of spit and the declaration that I was my own God now. It was probably eaten by a whale, in which case I am definitely going to Hell.

"Freaks are speical," Ariel informed me importantly, "Because God loves us and tried to stop us from being born. Isn't that nice?"

If only He'd succeeded. Yet, despite my grouchiness, I became very fond of little Ariel, with her quirky, babyish outlook on life, her optimistic platitudes, and the way she was apt to bow her head, fold her hands, and recite "The Raven" entirely fom memory. As a result, I befriended Mr. and Mrs. Fleck, and since they were friends with everyone else, me and Mr. Y became friends with all of Coney Island's freaks. One big freakish family, with Ariel as our intrepid little moral support.

And then, a month later, completely out of the blue, this little eight-year old tried-but failed-to kill herself, saved only by the misconception that the palms were the place to cut yourself. We found her in a closet, asleep but alive in a puddle of blood. Everyone was absolutely gobsmacked. It turned out that some customer had made a comment about the sad, unfortunate life of freaks, and with her cheerful world of illusions and uniqueness destoyed, Ariel knew that she was not special. For the better part of an hour, Mr. Y, myself, and others listened in disbelief as she wept out the most bleak, hopeless, heart-breaking things, ending with a soft, "God didn't make me special. He broke me and threw me out."

Poor mentally-impaired Polly, already driven to her breaking point, disintegrated into sobs on her husband, who held Ariel to his chest as though someone were coming to drag her away. What in the world could anyone say to that? We were silent. It was like the punchline to the most horrible joke we ever heard. It was Mr. Y who came to the rescue with soothing words and the promise of a better day. I clenched my fists. I wanted to find whoever was responsible for hurting Ariel and choke the life out of them. _I'll never _(I said to myself) _let her get this sad again. _

And so, I became her pal. I couldn't talk, but I could dust off my English skills and write to her. She was a bright little girl, and after a while, I was able to actualy teach her Italian, a language perfectly suited to her musical voice. It was my consolation, for I could not speak myself. I nicknamed her "little girl", which is _Signorina_ in Italian, and as the years went by we became chummier and chummier, and she became prettier and prettier, though she never lost her quirky, deep thoughts.

I was there to see her turn "double-digits", I was there on New Year's Day, 1900, when everyone ran around screaming that it was the Twentieth Century. I was there when her body matured into that of a woman, when her hair went up and her skirts went to the floor, when her mother got killed, when Mr. Y announced the opening of Phantasma. I was there with her, watching the stars, when it occurred to me that I _always_ wanted to be there. I wanted to be there to kiss her, and marry her, and make love with her, and kiss her pregnant belly, and smoke cigars when she gave birth to my children. I wanted to be there forever.

But I had to become a better man. I had to be the kind of man who could really deserve a treasure like Ariel. The very idea of Gregory De Rossi, that wicked woman-user, smothering her rose-petal virgin flesh with his his coarse, animalistic copulating made me nauseous. I had to be different. I was criminal once, but I couldn't be anymore. I had to be re-born. I had to take on an entirely new identity.

Then it struck me. The character I was supposed to portray, Dr. Gangle, he was a former criminal. What did the pamphlet say? _Now he's a perfect gentleman._ Ha! _Perfetto! Eccellente! _I resolved, that very minute, to become everything a perfect gentleman was. I visualized Dr. Gangle. An eccentric sort of fellow, yes, but polite and truly good. I could make the transformation go deeper than makeup and costuming. If only I could imagine what this Dr. Gangle would do in any given situation, I could figure out how to change.

_Alright, then!_ cried Dr. Gangle in my mind. _If you want to be like me, we'll start tomorrow-on opening day. _

Opening day! Yes, we were ready for it. The streets were ready to be filled, the costumes packed on the racks were ready to be worn, our new lives-my new life-was ready to begin. Everything was born-again.

(

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(

)

Early on opening day, Ariel went swooping around the hall, knocking on doors and thwarting any plans anyone might have made to sleep later than six in the morning, chirping, "Good morning, everyone! Rise and shine! Opening day, today! Breakfast soon!"

At length her cries were rewarded as bleary-eyed freaks in hair curlers and night-robes came staggering out into the daylight, lighting cigarettes as they headed off to get dressed. It was like magic: we strolled into the dressing rooms looking like our ho-hum selves, but when we emerged in full makeup and costume we were a sight to be marveled at, a vision of extreme gothic beauty, the brilliant brainchild of Mr. Y, who designed every aspect of our appearances. We men, naturally, had been finished long before the ladies, so we went to the breakfast tent first.

We sat at the table reserved for freaks, Alf, now transformed into "Mr. Squelch"-looked scary in a black military-esque jacket, his eyelids blackened. He looked like he could kill you. Me? I had become "Dr. Gangle" with the help of metallic, reptillian makeup, and with my dark frock coat and hat I looked a bit like an Italian Count Dracula. My voice trumpet hung by a velvet rope. With no ladies around, we men cracked lewd jokes (while Alf glared) and piled our plates with sausage. A day like this-particularly mine, for I was Master of Ceremonies- would require a lot of fuel.

"Here come the lady-freaks!" announced Damien eventually, and in marched the painted, costumed ladies to unanimous approval, but the only one I really saw was Ariel. She looked like she stepped out of a silent film, all black and white with cherry lips and smoky, glimmering eyes, her throat decorated with lace, and her waist rising small and delicious in her dress. (Her hair was also radically short, but it was a wig, for Alf would not allow Mr. Y cut her hair.) _Mamma Mia! _

"Lord, help us!" cried Mr. Squelch as he rose to embrace her. I silently congratulated him for siring such a beauty. "What are we going to do, Ee-talian? We ain't spruce enough to be seen with the fabulous Miss Fleck here!"

I needed no reminding.

"Daddy! You look so scary!" Ariel bubbled, squeezing her cheek against Alf's, and for a moment Daddy and Daughter Fleck made a heart-warming picture.

Then she slowly took in the sight of me, and her rosy mouth opened wide in glee. "Oh, look at you!" she cried. "You look like a completely different man! A very-" Her eyelids drooped prettily, and she poked my nose-"Handsome one."

My heart filled with warmth.

"Hey, Ariel! Lookin' cute!" called Damien.

"No more compliments! You're embarrassing me," Ariel said demurely, sitting very straight. Something about fine clothes makes one feel very dignified. "Pass the sausage and eggs, please! And toast. I'm partial to toast. Coffee, too. You may as well pass the jam as well, I need it for my toast."

We ate our fill of all that good food, stealing admiring glances at each other's costumes and feeling proud to be eating at a nice table with a tablecloth and fine china, segregated from the common performers and workers, who were relegated to picnic benches. At Phantasma there was a definite and well-defined hierarchy. On the bottom rung were the janitors, followed by the maintenence crew, then vendors, then security, then the "common" performers, then the performing, costumed freaks (we insisted on being called "freaks"; it was a term we embraced) then the "Trio", then Mr. Y, the boss. In this way, Phantasma truly was like a city, with a society, classes, and expectations.

"Excuse me!" announced a voice with a strong French accent, and everyone looked up from their plates. It was Madame Giry. "Thank you," she said. "Mr. Y wishes to extend his thanks to the crews, without whom this opening day would not have been possible. He also wishes luck to his common performers, as well as his thirteen freaks-"

It was here that we freaks-even those who were still chewing their food-burst into cheers, clinking utensils together and toasting each other with our coffee mugs and bacon slices until Madame Giry's glare finally shut us up.

"Furthermore," she continued stiffly, "Mr. Y would like his Trio to report to him in the Ayrie, together, as soon as they are finished with their breakfast. The rest of you may do as you please until your individual acts, and you are reminded that the park will open in one hour. That is all." And, as swiftly as she had come, Madame Giry pushed aside the flap and was gone.

"Ah'm so jealous," griped Ann loudly, causing her twin to wince. "Y'all get to go into the Ayrie. Desk-raab it for us later, woncha?"

Genevieve pounced on that idea gladly. "Oh, yes, please do. We'll all hear about it after dinner. Oh, won't that be fun, Damien?" she gushed to her brother as she started on yet another lollipop. "I do love stories. You're so lucky, Ariel, although I guess if I were Mr. Y I'd love to have such a cutie in my Trio."

Damien chuckled. "She's a real peach. Don't fluster the Master too much, young lady."

"I can assure you that flustering employers is not something Ariel has been brought up to do," Alf said sharply, his grudge against the Pennysworths making him take it entirely the wrong way. "Mr. Y has known her ever since she was a child, and he knows she's been raised right. Doesn't need to be told twice to do anything, does her job and does it well with no hullaballo. I should scarcely think that a man like Mr. Y would hire a girl with the intent of hankering after her, hmm?"

That effectively subdued the Pennysworth siblings, who awkwardly mumbled that they hadn't meant to suggest anything as they returned to their breakfasts.

"Well, I'm finished eating!" Ariel declared, smiling nervously at Alf. "Are you finished, Daddy? And you, Gangle?"

We were. Wishing our co-workers luck, we left the tent and headed for the center of Phantasma, where Mr. Y's workshop and dwelling-place, the "Ayrie", rose up into the sky like a great black obelisk. It was the highest point in his city, and all the streets went out from its base like the spokes of a giant wheel. At the very top floor were two windows shaped like giant, staring eyes. Even when he was not physically present, it seemed as though Mr. Y was always there, high above his world, watching all day and especially all night, when the lights within the workshop made those eyes glow like the eyes of God, high above us in the darkness.

Now we stood at the base of that tall building, craning our necks to see the tip of it. All we'd ever seen until now were the rough sketches. It was like being on the threshold of Heaven; the excitement of what lay ahead in Mr. Y's workshop made us anxious. Finally I essayed to open the door, and we began our ascent. Up and up we went, on a long spiral staircase, the clatter of our steps and the rustle of Ariel's skirts the only noise we made. It went on for so long that it almost became hypnotic. It seemed that there was nothing else in the world but the darkness, and our breath, and our footsteps, all going about in an endless circle, until suddenly there was a door.

We tried to look down, to see how far we had climbed, but we could not. All we could see below us was a pit of darkness. It was as though we had materialized from nothingness, and someone behind us had made every step disappear as we climbed. Now we were in Mr. Y's world. Ariel timidly rapped on the door.

"Who's there?" called Mr. Y's voice from within.

"Me," Ariel blurted cutely. "Er, it's me, Miss Fleck, and my father, and Dr. Gangle."

"Ah. The Trio. Come in."

We stepped out of the darkness, into the Ayrie, and let out a collective cry of amazement. It was the most bizarre, magnificent place we had ever seen. It was like a cathedral dedicated to the worship of music and artifice. The ceiling rose majestically to a dizzying height, a large golden angel rising up the wall and spreading her wings over us. All around the room were all sorts of fascinating things: instruments, maps of exotic lands, strange machines, automatron robots, statues, things that whirred and made tinkling tunes, mirrors, and roses. A chandelier of golden Medusa heads hung above us. There was a grand piano by the windows, covered in sheet music, and near that was a small curtained chamber. Ariel laughed aloud when she saw that there was a relief sculpture of herself in a peacock costume against the back wall, along with a bust of her father's tattooed head. This was above and beyond anything we'd imagined. Mr. Y was a genius!

Mr. Y! Suddenly I became aware of him. He was standing by his piano in a long black robe, a white half-mask obscuring the right side of his face, smiling. He clearly found our astonishment amusing. We'd been so busy gawking at the Ayrie that we had forgotten him! I blushed in mortification and bowed, clumsily, and the other two immediately followed suit.

"Good morning, Master," we chorused.

Mr. Y nodded. "Good morning. I was about to ask you what you think of the Ayrie, but you've already made that abundantly clear. Welcome to my world, my friends." He cast a quick, careless look across it, as though it were something he'd thrown together in a weekend, and then he crossed to the piano. "You already understand your schedules, so we needn't bother going over that, but you will need these."

He gave us each a chain with a key on it, as well as a stiff, laminated card.

"Those are the master keys," Mr. Y explained. "They'll get you into anything with a lock in Phantasma, just in case I need you to go somewhere. As for those cards, they're proof that you have the authority to do so. At the end of the day you turn both items in to me."

We examined our cards for a moment.When we looked up again, Mr. Y was sitting down on the piano bench, looking at some sheet music. The light streaming in through the eye-shaped windows made him look both impressive and tired. He tapped a key.

"Provided that you three don't have any questions," he said almost glumly, no longer looking at us, "You may go. I know you'll carry out your duties well."

"Yes, Master," we said, and all too soon we had to leave that wonderful Ayrie and head back down the dark, spiraling stairs.

"Gee," Ariel said as we descended. "What do you suppose is eating Mr. Y? Isn't he excited about opening day? He looks miserable."

"I'll say," I added. Really, Mr. Y did look miserable!

"Mr. Y hasn't got the luxury of enjoying it the way we do," replied Alf reprovingly, misinterpreting our concerns for complaints. "Running a big operation like Phantasma is a very stressful thing, financially and otherwise. We mustn't criticize. Not after everything Mr. Y has done for us."

See what I mean about Alf making you guilty for no reason? Anyhow, once we reached the bottom, we could see the band congregating by the main gate, where throngs of people were gathered. Reporters were preparing their cameras. I caught sight of Meg Giry scuttling into a dressing barn with two other dancers. Banners were fluttering. The rest of the gang was getting into position. Here it was: the day we'd been waiting for.

Suddenly Ariel threw her arm around Alf's neck, and then mine_. _I wanted to kiss her._ "We're gonna be famous!"_ she shrilled, and all three of us howled with laughter. "To the main gate, Trio! Step lively!"

(

)

(

)

The band struck up a loud E-chord for the dual purpose of announcing us and shutting the crowd up. The three of us joined hands and came strolling through the illuminated main gate, where we were met with awe-struck murmurs and the sensation of a thousand interested eyes burning upon us. Compared to them, we were downright creepy. Nevertheless, we had this routine down to a science.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced Alf loudly. "Mr. Y welcomes you to Phantasma!"

Ariel piped up. "Featuring Dr. Gangle, Master O' Ceremonies!"

Puff puff puff! went a couple dozen cameras, followed by a spattering of flash bulbs and powder. I realized that I'd forgotten to brush my teeth.

"And Miss Fleck, aerialist extrordinaire!" Alf said again. I ran my tongue hastily over my teeth.

"The amazing Mr. Squelch," said Ariel, "World's strongest man!"

My turn! "And direct from Paris, France..."

Ariel gestured behind her. "Coney Island's Ooh-La-La Girl..."

"Meg Giry!" all three of us cried, and hustled away to allow Meg and her dancers to come prancing out. Judging by the whistles and renewed vigor of the cameras, the spectators really appreciated Miss Giry's very brief costume. The band struck up a saucy little number as we sat down to watch and sing along.

_Welcome each and everyone, to our firmament of fun_

_Our buffet of bally-hoo!_

_It's where Coney comes to play, and it's opening today_

_And it's only for you! _

Just as I knew he would, Alf couldn't resist casting a disapproving eye at the men who were getting their money's worth of a look at Meg's rear as she danced. His skin pinked under his tattoos and he turned to Ariel, picking imaginary lint off her dress, as though trying to make their father-daughter relationship obvious to these _unreasonable_ perverts. Ariel didn't notice. She was singing. I waited for my cue.

_Entertainment day and night, sure to dazzle and delight_

_And of course we'll be there too! _(insert coquettish _yoo-hoo_ from Meg here)

_We're so happy that you're here, for the season's big premiere_

_And it's only for yoooou! _

A final flourish of the drums and trumpets, and Meg Giry bowed out to wild, enthusiastic applause. I hopped up, ready to make my next announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen! That was Meg Giry, the Ooh-La-La Girl! Five performances daily, only here at Phantasma!" Ariel and I met eyes and smiled. It was time for her big debut. "And now, if you will kindly make your way to the trapeze tent, straight and to your left, Mr. Y is pleased to present the aerial exoticism of the fabulous Miss Fleck! Half-bird, half-woman, one-hundred percent _artiste!_ Not to be missed..."

As I led the patrons into the trapeze tent, Ariel was hustled off into a dressing room with her costumers. Alf and I assumed seats at the front of the stands, along with the rest of the freak gang. This was really a great moment for all of us, who were like a family, to see our special girl distinguished in the sight of all of Brooklyn. As the patrons settled into their seats, I heard them praising the handsome tent and pointing excitely up at the aerial hoop and riggings.

"It says in this little paper that Miss Fleck lived with peacocks, Mama!" I heard a kid say.

"No, dearie, it's a character she plays, surely," replied the mother. "Remember what Aunt Lottie read from _The Times?_ She's the daughter of that lady who got killed."

"Oh?" said another woman, obviously a friend, in surprise. "She is? You don't mean that lady with that outlandish Greek name? The acrobat?"

"I do mean her. The girl going to perform is her daughter."

"You don't say. And doing acrobatics, just like her mother? Oh, how _precious." _

Beside me, Alf was twisting the sleeve of his jacket, his tattooed face drawn into an "I'm-the-nervous-Daddy" expression. I wondered if he heard that. But just then there was a spatter of applause, for Ariel, dressed in a brilliant blue aerialist's get-up, had just emerged and was waving pleasantly at the crowd. The gentlemen of the crowd in particular had some enthusiastic remarks regarding the way the blue leotard complemented her anatomy, which, of course, Alf heard and became accordingly panicked. His face rapidly changed back and forth from fatherly pride to fatherly fury, from smiling wistfully to glaring someone down. God, it was funny. I had to admit, Ariel was looking pretty...

_"Hey!"_ cried Dr. Gangle in my mind_. "It is very rude to look at a young lady like that. Behave!" _

Ouch. Yes, sir.

Ariel got situated on the lowered hoop and a large cloth, like a sheet, was fastened onto her back. She kissed her mother's ring, gave the rig operators a thumbs-up, and up she slowly went, the band striking up the tender theme of _Swan Lake._ The long, long, sheet flowed beneath her. Up and up, and once she was all the way up, two men grabbed opposite sides the hanging sheet, and slowly walked away to reveal the impressive illusion. All at once, Ariel was a radiantly beautiful peacock, her massive tail spread out beneath her. The audience-and all of us freaks-cried out and cheered in admiration.

And then, in one swift motion, they jerked the fabric, and it went fluttering to the ground. The music swelled. For a moment, Ariel sat suspended like a bird in midair, and then she kissed her mother's ring, gripped the sides of the hoop, and went right into the acrobatics. Terrible word to describe it. It was more like ballet, the way she flowed and danced so gracefully to the strains of that haunting music. The lights went out, and a spotlight fell upon her. She became like a swan, a peacock, on her own little white lake, where time was of little consequence and there was nothing but beauty and music.

"Oh Damien!" I heard Genevieve whisper. "Isn't she utterly marvelous? I declare I could cry this instant."

"Marvelous," the brother echoed.

"A sight fer sore aahs, that's fer shore," added Aggie-Ann.

I was mesmerized. On the ground she had been so limpy, but she was perfectly at home in the air. It also struck me that she must be very strong, for she actually did an upside-down split a few times, holding herself up by her arms. She was having such fun, flipping and falling so carelessly, and yet so controlled. A sensation of something between love and awe gripped me. It did not go away until the music faded, the lights rose, and Ariel spread her arms in a dramatic flourish as everyone got on their feet to applaud her. Her eyes fluttered, her mouth trembled, but she did not cry. She kissed her fingertips and gave a little wave that reduced Alf and the whole freak section to sniffles. That was the way Polly always ended her routine. It was like a little hug from the grave.

"Oh, Alf, she was beautiful," Mrs. Beardsley cooed, but the poor man too overwhelmed to say anything.

I jumped up, wiped my eyes, cleared my throat, and announced, "Ariel Fleck, ladies and gentlemen!"

One last burst of applause as the lady of the hour came down and was walked off, and then everyone rumbled to their feet. Alf hurried to meet his daughter in her dressing room. My heart was singing with happiness for both the Flecks. Unfortunately, I'd have to congratulate her later, for I had a schedule to adhere to as Master of Ceremonies. I had to get to the next event:

But before I slipped out, I caught a really touching glimpse of Alf reaching her door and saw Ariel rush to hug him and wipe the watery black make-up gunk off his eyes. I smiled and went into Phantasma, which was now jumping with amazed, thoroughly entertained patrons. I was very happy.

"Excusez-moi!" A hand suddenly gripped my arm, and I jumped. It was Meg Giry, now decently attired in a robe. Her makeup was smeared and her hair was a bit tousled, but she still looked good. "I'm sorry, Dr. Gangle, but have you seen Mr. Y? Er, recently, I mean?"

"The last time I saw Mr. Y was in the Ayrie," I said honestly. "And he was not looking happy. I don't know if he's left since then. He didn't look like he was planning to. He wasn't dressed for it."

This seemed to make her sad. "Oh."

"If he has gone out, I know he'll certainly be back at the Ayrie in an hour. The Flecks and I are scheduled to go to the Ayrie then." I wanted to be useful, but I hadn't the time. "Sorry, but I don't have even a minute to spare, next performance is coming up..."

"Mine too," she said. She gave me a creaky, sympathetic smile and hurried off, a thin golden girl in a bustling crowd.

Schedule and voice trumpet in hand, I went bouncing to the next two acts. Off I went to announce Genevieve and Damien's routine, a dark, edgy affair of fire-breathing and bodily contortions that seemed particuarly hellish coming after a performance from Ariel, and then off to Aggie-Ann's musical performance. Mr. Y had designed their dress to be different on each sister's side, to to emphasize their individuality. One side white and bubbly, the other side dark and practical. After a brief period of humorous bantering, they played their banjo and sang, the music twice as fun coming from a two-headed girl. Everyone loved them.

After that, it was time to head back to the Ayrie again for a brief interlude, and then back to my job. I checked my pocketwatch. I was running about ten minutes early. Very good. The schedule was running along as smooth as an oiled cog. As I made my way to the base of that towering Ayrie, I saw the Girys going in and the Flecks approaching from another road, immediately recognizable in those funny black costumes.

Alf was thoroughly recovered from his emotional scene at Ariel's show; there was only a tell-tale black smudge near one eye and an aura of wistful happiness that clashed with his "Mighty Mr. Squelch" get-up. Ariel was as cute as ever.

"You were beautiful," I told her as all three of us ascended the dark Ayrie stairs together. "Really, _Signorina_, you were so beautiful to watch."

"Thank you," she replied, and then her voice grew a little sweeter. "I felt beautiful doing it."

A moment of friendly silence, and then Meg Giry's voice echoed high above us, like a perky, merry ghost. "Master! Oh, Master, did you watch? The crowd? I hope you're proud! Hmm? Yes? How about the costume? Do you think it was...too _revealing?" _

"YES!" yelled Alf.

Meg's voice stopped. Someone else in the Ayrie said something. Ariel and I stuffed our sleeves in our mouths and almost fell down the stairs laughing, looking at Alf in amazement. Alf, in turn, smiled wryly with the air of a man who has done his duty. We pulled ourselves together and kept climbing. Every once in a while Ariel began gagging with laughter, which made the rest of us snort and giggle, but we kept quiet.

"Oh, Daddy," Ariel gushed. "You're such a card."

"Card," Alf echoed, but then he suddenly stopped. He felt his jacket. He patted his pocket. Muttering, he began digging through different pocket compartments, and then he seemed to realize something terrible. "No! I...son of a-!" He came dangerously close to swearing.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

Alf looked back down the stairs and let out an infuriated sigh. "That card," he griped. "The one we're supposed to carry around that Mr. Y gave us. It's sitting by the drinking fountain. I was looking at it before I got a drink and set it down. Anyone could grab it and take off-I've got to go get it!"

"You'd better," I told him. "Hurry; we'll tell Mr. Y where you are."

"No, don't!" he cried, beginning his hasty descent. "He'll think I'm unreasonable and can't be trusted with things. No, say that I had to help a patron with something. I'll go as fast as I can!"

And so down Alf ran, his hurried steps clattering, leaving me and Ariel alone to walk up.

When I was certain that he was out of earshot, I drew my arm about my secret love and said, quietly, "You're famous at last, _Signorina."_ I wanted to blurt out _I love you _desperately, but could only say, "I am proud to know you."

"Oh, stop!" she cried, wriggling out of my grasp and hustling ahead to the Ayrie door. "Thank you, but stop. I can't stand all this worshipping, not even from you, _Signor._ Please, just treat me like you always have. All of us freaks are equally great today."

"Okay." I felt stupid.

She grabbed the doorknob but didn't open the door. She blinked and looked down. I hoped she hadn't forgetten her card too.

"By the way," she said abruptly, turning and meeting my eyes. "The roses you gave me yesterday are nicer than all the flowers I've recieved so far today. I love them."

A thrill went up and down my spine like a telegram wire.

She suddenly seemed shy, and turned away again. "I don't know why I just thought of that."

_"Christine! Christine!" _

Madame Giry's sudden shriek made us stumble back in alarm. Within the Ayrie, there was a brief silence and then an angry grumble from Mr. Y. Madame Giry said something vague. Footsteps snapped along the floor, shuffled, and then continued snapping, getting louder. The doorknob rattled. Before we could do anything, the door swung open and blinding light streamed into our eyes. It was Meg. Not expecting to see two freaks coming out of the dark, she gasped and clutched her heart. Then she recognized us.

"Just going in," I began to say apologetically, but she let out an irritated huff and swept past us down the stairs.

Within the room, Mr. Y and Madame Giry continued to fight. We sat on the steps and listened through the shut door. It was hard to hear around Meg's retreating footfalls.

"...where...when...hired you? Not her! Who kept working...waiting in this...sacrificing our very lives!"

"Giry!" growled Mr. Y.

"And who helped you buy Astley's? And Haley's? Who financed that?" Madame Giry sounded absolutely livid. "Meg and I did!"

"I don't see how this-!"

"And the investors! And the press! And the politicians! Where was Christine? Gone! Long gone!"

Ariel and I looked at each other, bewildered. Who was Christine?

"We have slaved here in this dump for a decade, and where was Christine? Touring France! She chose Raoul, chose his beauty and money! It's high time you faced up to the-"

_"ENOUGH!" _yelled Mr. Y, bringing the fight to a standstill.

"You...!" hissed Madame Giry levelly. "Put-that-gun-down."

My heart jolted. Ariel squeaked. A _gun? _

There was a horrible silence as we crouched in the dark, holding our breath, the tension vibrating in the air. I began wildly planning what I would have to do if gunshots went off.

"Ariel," I whispered. "Get behind me."

I felt her shuffle and shrink against the back of my jacket.

Mr. Y's voice, more deadly than I had ever heard it, broke the silence. "You will be repaid as I promised you would. Now-" A definite sound of a gun being either loaded or unloaded-Ariel whimpered-"If you've anything else left to say?"

There was a defiant silence, followed by heavy, angry footsteps like the lowest notes on a piano. Madame Giry was coming towards us. I got up quickly just as the knob rattled, Ariel still grabbing me.

She flung open the door and yelped when she saw us.

"Oh! Oh, I..."

I smiled weakly. "Er, just going in..."

Her fear dissolved into disgust. She turned around. "Your freaks are here!" she spat to Mr. Y, and then she went stalking down the stairs, leaving me and Ariel to tip-toe nervously into the Ayrie, our insides quivering.

When we got in, Mr. Y was leaning on his piano, in the same robe he'd been wearing all day, looking at a small handgun. Ariel grabbed my arm. But there was no reason to fear; Mr. Y put it away under a pile of music. He seemed much more concerned about a nearby automatron. She was a beautifully realistic lady with curly hair and a dress made of some shimmery gold fabric. One of her arms was broken off. Could this be the Christine that Madame Giry was yelling about? The one who chose some guy called Raoul over him?

"Dr. Gangle," Mr. Y greeted, apparently still upset by the arguement. "Miss Fleck. I trust Phantasma is running smoothly?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, too afraid to say anything else.

"Excellent." He didn't seem to care one way or the other. He frowned. "Where is Mr. Squelch?"

As if on cue, his question was interrupted by the sound of loud, clattering footsteps. The Ayrie door scraped upon, and in stumbled Alf, panting like he'd just run a marathon, the lost card in hand. He put it in his pocket and looked apologetically at Mr. Y.

"I apologize," he said. "I was..."

"Never mind," interrupted Mr. Y, satisfied that he was simply present. "I need you to fix the Christine Daae automatron for me. Her arm-" Here his voice darkened, and his eyes grew bitter-"Got broken off."

I was right! Ariel and I gave each other a quick, significant look.

Interpreting Mr. Y's anger for dissatisfaction with his tardiness, Alf bowed his head meekly and went immediately to do as he was told. He knew nothing of the strange arguement.

"As for you, Dr. Gangle," he said, "I need you to sort some of my paperwork into piles: Bills, personal letters, and all else. And Miss Fleck, I need you to dictate a letter for me in shorthand, and then write it out nicely on stationary."

Off I went to the treacherous pile of paperwork, my head swmming with questions, and Ariel took up a pad and pen, looking equally thoughtful. I tried to hear what she was dictating as I sorted.

"My dear Miss Daae," Mr. Y said slowly as Ariel scribbled rapidly. "Your esteemed reputation has reached my ears across the Atlantic..."

What exactly was said, I don't remember, but I know that he invited Christine Daae, apparently a very famous French opera singer, to come and sing an aria to close out the inaugaural season of Phantasma on September the third. The letter was absolutely oozing with compliments and poetic expressions, but Ariel's shorthand skills were impressive. Her pen flew across the paper as though she were a machine.

But when I glanced over every now and again, I saw that her face was pale and her mouth was tight. When she finished dictating the final line_-"I humbly request this of you, not only as a businessman but an avid fan"_-she put down the pen and looked at the Christine Daae automaton, almost as though its presence hurt her feelings. Sadly, she went to fetch a sheet of good stationary.

Alf bent "Christine's" newly-repaired arm. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Y," he asked, keeping his tone aloof, "Have you ever met the real Christine Daae before?"

I squirmed at the long, awkward silence, as did Ariel, who was now translating the shorthand into beautiful calligraphy.

Mr. Y looked out the window, his jaw firm. "Yes," he replied, in a tone that forbade any further inquiries.

At length we all completed our tasks and were dismissed, but before we left, Mr. Y put the completed letter into an envelope, wrote an address on it, and stamped it. Then he gave it to Ariel.

"Take this to the nearest post-box and deposit it, please, Miss Fleck."

(

)

(

)

Neither me nor Ariel told Alf about what had happened between Mr. Y and Madame Giry. He had enough to say about the presence of a life-like woman in the Ayrie.

"So realistic!" whispered Alf frantically as we descended back into Phantasma. "I've never seen an automaton so like a real woman before! And showing so much skin! I felt like a fiend, touching her! I almost wanted to apologize."

Ariel and I had a good, nervous laugh. Well, I did. Ariel looked like she was going to cry, the letter clenched in her fist.

"I mean it! I'd like to know why Mr. Y keeps her around." His forehead wrinkled as though he had a pretty good guess. "I've heard of admiring someone, but keeping a doll of them around...I have never known Mr. Y to be unreasonable before; this whole thing seems terribly lascivious-"

"Daddy, _no!"_ Ariel almost wailed. There were tears in her voice. "Don't! This conversation is... _indecent!" _

That stopped Alf dead in his tracks. "It is indecent," he admitted in a stricken voice. "Land sakes, I guess I don't know what's got into me. I must be embarrassing you. Never mind, dear, we won't talk about it anymore. I'm sorry."

We actually didn't talk about anything at all for the whole way down. I had a lot to ponder. I had never known Mr. Y to be a man who cared about women all that much, and all of a sudden this Christine Daae had entered the picture. What was more, Madame Giry knew who she was. She knew that, at some point, this Christine had made a decision between him and some fellow called Raoul, which had to have been before I met him. I was amazed. He was still pining over this woman ten years later? So much that he'd pull a gun on someone who taunted him about it? And now he was inviting her over?

Worst of all, this whole fiasco unearthed emotions in Ariel that confused me, and if I admitted it to myself, they even made me jealous. She seemed to be taking this revelation very badly for reasons beyond her strict moral upbringing. This was not mere maidenly embarrassment. When she reached the nearest post-box, she slammed the letter into it like it had done her a great injustice and turned away with her cheeks flaming.

She was unhappy all the rest of the day. Our freaks friends-and even Alf-assumed that she was heartsick for her mother, but I had a feeling that she was heartsick for someone else who, up until today, had seemed somehow attainable. Night fell, the park closed, eveybody raved and laughed about their successes, the make-up came off, the costumes put away, Ariel read "Les Miserables" (looking appropriately miserable as she did), and Phantasma went to bed. Even if Ariel did want to look at stars with me, we couldn't; it was a cloudy night, and neither I nor "Dr. Gangle" would have known what to say anyway.

_**(Gangle stops the story here for now.)**_

The hour was up. Mr. De Rossi's eyes, which had been swimming with old memories and unresolved issues, refocused and looked soberly up into those of Mr. Whittington, who was contemplating all the nuances and discoveries in this futher unfolding of the tale.

"Mr. Whittington," the prisoner asked seriously. "I must ask you to do something."

"What?"

"I want you to hug Ariel." His eyes closed. "Nothing crazy, just hug her for a bit. She's too proud to say she needs it. She sits in here and lies to me, tries to tell me not to worry about her, but I know her too well. She's a very hurt girl."

Mr. Whittington nodded, the mental image of Miss Fleck's tears flowing onto the pictures of her parents fresh in his mind. "You can count on me."

"One more thing. This is going to sound a little strange, but listen. When you come back again, tell me how it was, hugging her." He blushed, unable to explain what he wanted. His accent thickened in embarrassment. "Ah, please, I not trying to be strange. It is-a jus'... I no remember what-a she...smells like. What-a she feels like."

Rodger eyebrows raised.

"No, no! You misunderstand," panicked Mr. De Rossi. "It is like-a this: for de past feef-teen years, we no touch each other." He tapped the glass sadly. "Only pretend we can. So many times I want to hug her. So many times she sit-a there and cry, and I not able to help. I no sleep. I forgetting what-a she is like to hug. I not know how to ess-plain."

"I understand," said Mr. Whittington, and he really did understand. "I'll do as you've asked. But don't lose sleep over her anymore. She's safe."

"You very good man," said Mr. De Rossi, bowing his head. "When I get out-a here, I give-a you lotsa money."

On this grateful note, the interview was over, and Mr. Whittington and Rodger left with an even thicker pile of notes. Out they strolled into the slushy streets.

Rodger swallowed deeply and asked the question. "Uh, Jay," he said, carelessly eyeing a group of playing children, "You mentioned that Ariel's eating a lot. Is she eating at your place?"

Mr. Whittington's reply was blunt and honest. "She's living at my place."

_"_She's..._living _at your place?" Rodger exclaimed. "You're not actually serious, are you?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

"But...but that's...!"

"But what? Mr. De Rossi asked me to take care of her, and I am."

Rodger rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Look, Jay. I know Ariel's cute. She's got a touching little backstory. The De Rossi guy's apparently crazy about her, whether she feels the same way or not. But think about it. In a month or two, this guy's getting out of jail. To what job, may I ask? Who's gonna hire a guy who's been in jail for fifteen years? And what about Ariel? Having a song written about what a lonely drunk you are looks pretty bad on a job application. So you've got two pals who are homeless and have no ability to make money, but they both know that you hand out free lunches. And before you know it-whoop, zoop, sloop! You're running a free boarding house."

"She's giving me tremendous insider information about Phantasma," countered Mr. Whittington levelly. "Would it really be decent of me to make buckets of royalties off her story and leave her to freeze on the street? What would happen if the book became a success, but then she told everyone that I treated her like a bum? That would reflect very poorly upon me."

Rodger silently conceded that his friend had a point.

"And furthermore," Mr. Whittington continued. "What if it was you who was in jail and Bernice was homeless?"

"Now see here," Rodger replied, annoyed. "That's not a parallel case. For one..."

"I have no desire to continue debating this. I've made my decision. If I end up running a boarding house, so be it. Ariel does not presume upon anything. In fact, she insists on cooking and cleaning to make up for the costs she incurs, and thanks me every five seconds. I can see why Mr. De Rossi likes her. I guess all she needed was someone to treat her with respect, and not throw dimes and beer at her."

They reached Mr. Whittington's house.

"Well, if you've got to maintain good public relations, you've got to do what you've got to do," sighed Rodger. "It's your life, Jay. Do what you want. I won't whine."

"Thank you, Rodger, and thank you for all you've done for me thus far."

Rodger smiled slightly and shrugged. "Welcome."

"Breakfast tomorrow?"

"You got it, boss."

Mr. Whittington started up his stairs.

"Jay. Wait!" called Rodger suddenly. He stood, looking torn for a moment, but then he dug a crumpled bill out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to Mr. Whittington. "Buy the old girl something nice, will ya?" he muttered.

Mr. Whittington accepted the note gratefully and went inside his home, and Rodger hustled off, thoroughly perplexed at his own behavior.

Miss Fleck's face was bright and eager when her friend appeared on the threshold. She sat up on the old red couch where she'd been resting and gestured for Mr. Whittington to sit down beside her.

"How is he, Jay?" she asked. "Does he look good? Does he have any messages for me?"

"He looks better than the way I left him," Mr. Whittington answered honestly. "He's very happy that you're being fed and housed and all that sort of thing. And he actually does have a message for you, as a matter of fact."

"Really? What is it?"

"It's this," said Mr. Whittington, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace. For a moment, Miss Fleck was still with surprise, but then she closed her eyes and returned the hug, feeling the care of her imprisoned friend radiating from the warm arms of his messenger. She stayed there for a long time, trying to remember what it was like to hug him. It was so hard to remember.

"It's been a long time," she murmured softly, "Since I've been hugged."

"So I've heard," said Mr. Whittington.

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

As the holidays-and my church activities-pick up, updates will be slightly longer in between, but I will make every attempt to make them uniform and predictable. Writing 15-20 pages a week is pretty challenging, and that's not including the conclusion to "Freaks Never Die"! My typing fingers shall be permanently malformed, and then I myself can join a freak show with a mysterious boss.

Thanks for reading City of Wonders!


	7. The Mysteries of Mr Y

Chapter Seven

The Mysteries of Mr. Y

After breakfast with Rodger, Mr. Whittington arrived home to an antsy Miss Fleck, who was itching to go for a walk. Under the understanding that they would not venture too far, she put on a respectable coat and cap, and the two of them strolled down the street. The weather was decent. Strings of little birds balanced on the telephone wires, the sun occasionally came bursting through the overcast sky, and the refreshing scent of warm gravel and rain came steaming up from the ground.

There was a bridal salon called Celine's at a nearby corner. Its display window was filled with fashionably thin, flat-chested mannequins with frizzed and waved bobs, vivid cheeks, and dark eyes, and it was upon these frozen beauties that the bridal gowns and bridesmaid dresses were displayed. Miss Fleck pressed her fingers against the glass, in spite of herself, and marveled aloud.

"Get a load of that dress," she sighed, pointing to the center mannequin. "I guess I'd just about die for a dress like that."

The dress was elegantly simple, with straight, pleasing lines and long sleeves with frosty, intricate lace like a spiderweb. Upon the mannequin's head was the matching bridal veil. It was sewn into what looked like a cap, with little crystals around the brim, but below the ears a long cascade of lace fell to the floor and trailed behind. It was cathedral-length. On either side of the "bride" were her "bridesmaids", clad in whisper-soft pink georgette and matching hats. Miss Fleck almost drooled.

"Wouldn't I like to be the girl who goes tripping up the aisle in that!" she sighed again.

Mr. Whittington never made a habit of really examining dresses, but he could see that the bridal salon's wares were of very good craftsmanship.

"You have excellent taste nevertheless, Ariel," he told her. "I think that dress would be beautiful on you."

"Better luck next life," she snorted. "Did you see the price on that thing? Call me a typical bum, but it's the first thing I saw. Ah well. This won't be the first time a mannequin's been better off than me. Let me tell you about it."

_**(Miss Fleck picks up the story.)**_

Christine Daae!

That day in the Ayrie was the first time I ever heard her name, and all the information I knew of her came from the letter I dictated and delivered for Mr. Y and what little I could deduce from what I'd heard beyond the door. She was a French soprano, a former ballet dancer, the wife of the Vicomte De Chagny-who she apparently chose over Mr. Y at some unknown time, and this rejection was apparently still stewing within him a decade later.

I looked at her automaton. If she looked anything like that in real life, she was a real peach. Creamy skin, soft and glowing in shades of ivory and rose, chestnut hair that tumbled and fell over her shoulders in pleasing, curly locks, a dancer's figure, standing proudly upon legs that had never seen a day of lameness, deformity, any lack of ability at all. Add to mix the fact that she was a world-renowned singer with millions of dollars, and my dreams of worming my way into Mr. Y's heart were about as realistic as me auditioning for the Ziegfield Follies.

It was like looking into a mirror, seeing that automaton, only instead of seeing my reflection I saw the form of a woman I could never be, and beside her all my plainess was made even more pathetic. I felt all my faults most keenly: my sallow skin, my straight, lifeless hair, the belly and thighs that seemed destined to be eternally dumpy, the malformed leg that was limpy even with a brace. Even with a beautiful dress and make-up I looked like a moth-eaten slob compared to Christine, who needed no make-up and had only a simple gold gown.

The timing was cruel. It was so, so cruel. I went tripping up to the Ayrie feeling so beautiful, still hearing the strains of Swan Lake ringing in my mind, feeling the love of the crowd, the tenderness in my Daddy's voice when he wept, telling me that he felt Mama's presence as he watched me perform. I was on top of the world. Mr. Y would be proud. He would smile at me, and throw roses, and tell me how far I'd come in ten years. And then, to see that woman! To see Mr. Y's hungry, loving expression as he looked at her and made me write the most glowing praises of her talent and beauty! To be the one-and this was cruellest of all-to take that admiring letter and put it in the post-box. I felt like I was holding everything I was ever audacious enough to dream, in paper form, and was obliged to give it away to the better woman. Always the runner-up, never the winner.

Crueller and crueller! Then to hear my father theorizing about further uses for that automaton, to hear him gently suggesting that perhaps he did more than admire its realism. Perhaps he waited until we were long gone in sleep, and then went to her, and _touched _her...! I almost screamed aloud in agony. This was not to borne! The night I heard Mr. Y playing "Music of the Night", something changed in me. A door in a secret garden creaked on its hinges. A song worked its way up to an unfinished crescendo. A rosebud-perhaps a red one blushed with black-grew wet with dew and tried to open its petals. I did not know what what I desired, but when I saw Mr. Y's adoration of Christine Daae, I felt the full, horrible bitterness of having that adoration denied me. I staggered out of that place a sadder and wiser freak.

I was a pretty bird upgraded to a marvelous cage, but it was a cage nevertheless, and I knew so little of my handler.

(

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(

)

A few days later, Gangle and I were watching stars, as we always did, the two glowing eyes of the Ayrie towering above us. Whenever I felt like my heart was in a panic and I didn't know what to do, I grabbed him, dragged him into the night, and sat with him on the bench, looking silently into the heavens. His presence, quiet and stoic, always comforted me. He was a living security blanket. If he tried to talk, I shut him up. Bless his heart, but he was (and still is) a yapper, and if you don't stop him he gets louder and louder and starts doing all kinds of Italian things with his arms. In his case, less is more when it comes to speech, and silence is the most eloquent of all. After all, who wants a security blanket who never shuts up?

Tonight, however, I had a definite purpose for our twilight outing, and to be perfectly honest, I had a feeling he wasn't going to take it very well. We parked our butts on the bench as usual. I smoothed my skirt, he dusted the knees of his trousers. His dark eyes were calm. I watched him for a minute, regretting that I was probably about to make him mad.

"Gangle," I essayed to begin, surprising myself with the formality of my tone. "I have to ask you something important, and I'm not sure how you'll take it. You'll listen to me, won't you?"

He blinked and looked at me, seeming to sense my seriousness. "Yes, Signorina," he replied, his accent a calm Brooklyn one. "Yes, I will listen. What is it?"

"I have been thinking hard about Phantasma, and Mr. Y, and Christine Daae, and-" Words momentarily evaded me-"And, well, everything we overheard on opening day."

So far he was calm. "Okay," he said.

"Right. Well, I've been getting to feel that there's a lot we don't know about Mr. Y. Too much. He knows everything about us, and while we do his bidding and play his characters, he has this whole past nobody knows about. A past with this Christine Daae lady, and the Girys...we don't even know his real name!"

Now he was getting testy. He fumbled for his voice-thingy.

"Please, please," I said quickly, hoping to nip an _"Ee-talian melt-ah-down"_ (I can't resist making fun of his accent) in the bud. "Please, just listen."

And so he was quiet, but he had an impatient _"I can no wait-a to yell at you"_ face.

"I know you're going to tell me that you don't know anything, and I believe you." This was an honest statement. "When you tell me things, I believe them, because I like you. I trust you. You mean a lot to me, you know."

His impatience faded into a smile that was almost shy.

"I feel the same about you, Signorina," he said so sweetly that I felt bad for all the times I secretly wanted to punch him. In fact, I felt a sudden urge to give him a hug. But I had a proposition to deliver.

"Thank you. Now, here is my point: I'm going to unravel Mr. Y's mysteries. Who he is, where he's from, his history. And I want you-" Here I put a hand on his shoulder-"To help me."

He looked at me as though I'd suggested that we both jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.

"You..._what?" _he cried. "I no unner-stan' you!"

"Yes you do, Gangle dear, you're just being a nervous Nellie. Listen, we're not going to do anything illegal. All I want to do is read up about this Christine Daae lady and her husband, do some poking around, see if I can't piece this mystery together. Aren't you curious? You must be."

"I not!"

"You always were a shocking liar," I sighed. "And a such an obviously bad one, too. Come now, I'm not planning to assassinate Roosevelt, I'm just being a detective. What's so bad about that?"

"Wha's so bad?" he exclaimed, his arms starting to do Italian things. "Plenny is-a bad! What happen if-a Mr.Y find out? Hmm? What then?There must be good reason he no tell-a us things. You want to be in trouble? Why-a this matter to you?"

I remembered the Music of the Night. I felt the hole in my psyche that kept crying for something unknown to fill it. How could I explain to him why all this mattered to me? I could barely figure it out myself. My throat suddenly tightened and hurt. I looked away.

"Signorina!" moaned Gangle, touching my shoulder. "Please, no cry. I sorry. I not mad. I jus' no unner-stan' you. No cry."

"I am not crying," I declared resolutely, pulling myself together with a cough. "I am fine. Never mind. Forget it. I respect your decision. I will do this alone."

His face tightened. That seemed to hurt his feelings. "No, no," he whined feebly."Not alone. I help you. Okay? Happy? I help you."

"You're just saying that."

"I not lying!" he insisted, and he grabbed my hands. "I can no jus' let you do all-a this alone. I not know why you do it, but I help you. Keep you out-a trouble. You funny girl, Signorina, so pretty when you smile, I can no stan' it when-a you mad with me."

"Mad with you. As if I could ever really be mad with you, Signor." I kissed his cheek and turned it pink. "Are you sure you really want to help me? Honest? Not trying to humor me?"

"What means _humor me?"_

"Nothing important. So you really want to be a detective?"

"Yes," he replied. He looked nervous, but he took and deep breath and went on, as though he were trying to talk himself into it, "We both be dee-teck-tiffs together. Yes. I be like Sherlock."

"No, you're Watson. I'm Sherlock because I thought of this in the first place."

"Ah, yes, yes. You are Sherlock, the boss. You tell-a me things are ell-ah-men-tary."

My heart warmed. Moments like this made me love him. "You _are_ adorable," I cooed.

"You adorable-est," he replied, and his voice calmed back into good English. "But Signorina, does your Dad know what your plans are? I don't think he would like it."

In my mind, I saw my Daddy's tattooed face looking sternly at me and pronouncing my prying behavior unreasonable. Gangle was right about that.

"No," I confessed. "I didn't tell him and I don't plan to. He would be worried. Better just to leave him out of it."

Gangle nodded, but he still looked a little troubled. "I see. But I have one more question. Why me? I mean, why do you want me to help?"

I opened my mouth, ready to give him a rational reply, and promptly realized that I didn't have one. I swallowed. All at once I felt like an actress who had forgotten her lines. I looked into Gangle's friendly brown eyes and genuinely wondered why it was that I wanted his help, why I had automatically assumed that I wanted him involved in what was, in reality, my business. Well, I guess he always had been. In my business, that is. It was one of those unspoken things-like _you make me happy-_that sounded so strange when verbalized.

"Er, because!" I eventually blurted. "We usually do everything together anyway, don't we? And I trust you. I think you're the sort of man a lady can depend on when she's got to...ah...solve mysteries."

He nodded as though I had placed a great, solemn duty upon him. "Well, Signorina, you can trust me," he said. "When do we begin this, ah, _great investigation, _Miss Sherlock?"

"The investigation begins Sunday afternoon at the Coney Island Public Library, Signor Watson," I replied.

The novelty of such a statement was delicious. I felt like I was the plucky, never-say-die heroine of some adventure novel, and Gangle was my world-wise escort, who spoke with a foreign accent, inexplicably carried a lasso, and said things like _Not on my watch! _I burst into thrilled giggles and grabbed his hands, and our laughter irreverrantly broke the quietness of the night. I could scarcely believe my own audacity. Any day now, I'd be tipping over ballot boxes or wearing my panties inside-out.

"Oh, Gangle!" I cried. "Shall we _really_ do it? Shall we?"

(

)

(

)

To put a long story short, we did. Daddy needed little convincing to stop at the library after Mass. In fact, he confessed that he'd always wanted to make a visit, but never brought it up-he didn't want to slow the group down and "be a burden", to quote him exactly. I chuckled and gave him the Oh Daddy routine, but inside I was more than a little disturbed. I wondered what other desires Daddy had foregone for the sake of everyone else's feelings. Perhaps one day I'd awake to find him half-dehydrated, his conscience forbidding him to fetch a cup of water without invitation, and out of his crusty throat would come his pitiful explanation, _"I didn't want to...be a... burden." _

Sundays at Phantasma were always pleasant, for in stark contrast to the other neighboring attractions, we shut down in observation of the Sabbath for the entire day, not just a few hours in the morning. Even in my day that was a radical thing for a Coney Island attraction to do. Common sense told you that you'd be losing a tremendous amount of money doing that, but it actually attracted a lot of admiring publicity and the money that came with it. Folks thought Mr. Y was a very pious man. In reality, he didn't give a rat's hat about the Sabbath, but I figured he knew that we freaks (especially Aggie-Ann) did, and after all was said and done he wanted a break anyway. So we got Sundays off, and the whole City of Wonders to ourselves.

"Oh, Ariel," Genevieve practically roared before the assembly at breakfast. "Is that Sunday dress new? I declare it is the nicest dress I've seen you wear yet. Look, Della, look at how the black and gray stripes go so perfectly with her jacket. And a seven-gored skirt, too! And that hat and veil! Isn't it marvelous? Say it's marvelous!"

She didn't notice my Daddy stuffing pieces of napkin in his ears. Gangle wasn't present. He was in the kitchen, giving the cooks their daily tongue-lashing over the lack of oregano in his sauce _("It taste-a like bullasheet without it!") _or some flaw in his food. I bet they wished he'd never gotten that voice trumpet.

"You do look nice, Ariel," agreed Della mildly, her third arm giving my appearance a thumb's up. "I've seen girls who look positively dead in black, but you really liven it up."

I thanked them both and returned to my sausage.

"Say," whispered Genevieve. She watched my father carefully out of the corner of her eye. "I hear you're headed to the library. Won't you be a real help and just stuff these papers here...no, no, don't look, just keep eating and pretend I'm not talking. I'll just put them here in your handbag. Just stuff these papers in some of the more popular books, will you? You're such a doll."

They were little slips of paper advertising Genny's suffragette society. I was accustomed to such sudden calls to activism, and gave both Genny and Della winks of understanding.

(

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(

)

Noon found myself, Gangle, and Daddy stepping across the musty, ancient book-scented threshold of the Coney Island Library, ready to learn. Daddy and his tattoos were met with the usual stares; sensing this, he quietly stole away into the fiction area, a list in hand. Gangle and I, who actually looked reasonably normal, sat together at a small table with no disturbance.

"Here's what we need to search for," I whispered, producing a list from my handbag. "Anything about Christine Daae, particularly any place that is significant to her, such as her birthplace and any places she has lived..."

"And especially any place in France," Gangle whispered back. "When Mr. Y and I were coming over to this country, he said he was coming from France."

"Did he ever mention where, precisely?"

"No. But I do remember that our ship left from the city of Calais."

Armed with notebooks, my sidekick and I went marching to the card catalogues, and then began our campaign, strutting through the labyrinth of leather-bound books, notebooks and pencils in hand. Daddy, on a far more easy-going mission, sat at his table reading "Treasure Island" with a peaceful expression on his tattooed face. He had no idea of the seriousness of Miss Sherlock and Signor Watson's research. He didn't even notice the little girl who was pointing at him and telling her mother to look at the funny man.

"Ah! Signorina!" trumpeted Gangle a bit loudly, turning from a nearby shelf. "Here is a book we can use!"

"Ssh! Not so loud, you dope." I scolded. "This is a library. But let's have a look."

The book was "Great Sopranos of France", and when I beheld the phrase "Daae, Christine" in the index, along with the page number where a whole article about her was just waiting to be read, my heart raced with excitement. Aside from the gloves and the dress, I was a bloodhound on the scent. I slapped Gangle on the back. He grinned proudly. Such are the thrills of doing research in a library.

"Now," I whispered, looking at Daddy out the corner of my eye, "Read the article to me quietly, and I'll translate it into shorthand."

Here's the basic gist of what I wrote down:

_Christine Daae. Born in 1881 outside of Uppsala, Sweden. Mother died in 1885. Mr. Daae and Christine travel to fairs and the like, the former playing the violin and the latter singing. They are soon discovered by a Professor Valerius, who takes them to Gothenburg and then to Paris. Mr. Daae dies in 1893, and Christine enters the Paris Conservatory to become a professional singer. After her 4-year course of study, she enters the Opera Populaire as an understudy in the 1897 production of "Hannibal". The sudden departure of the lead soprano, Carlotta Guidicelli, and her consequent assumption of the vacant role, propels her into stardom. From 1896-97 she is a figure in the controversial "Phantom of the Opera" affair. After the death of the aforementioned "Phantom", she marries Viscount Raoul de Chagny in 1897. Their marriage has produced a son called Gustave. _

After I had scribbled the last bit of shorthand, Gangle and I almost asked the exact question at once.

"What do they mean by..." Gangle began.

"The Phantom of the Opera affair?" I finished.

The phrase itself made me think of Edgar Allen Poe, ravens, and tell-tale hearts; as you can imagine, I was immediately intrigued, but the book gave us no elaboration other than the maddeningly information-less sentence provided. After all, it was a general compendium on French sopranos, not an in-depth discourse on Ms. Daae. I did the head-scratching thing while Gangle waited patiently.

"Signorina," he mused at length. "You want me to look for other books?"

"Hmm? Yes, you probably should. Perhaps one exclusively about the Opera Populaire, or Christine herself; those books would surely tell us about it..."

"Hello there, Ariel."

I froze, and Gangle jumped. Slowly, I turned to face my Daddy, eliminating all traces of agitation from my countenance, and he in turn smiled pleasantly at me and my notebook of shorthand.

"Land sakes!" he exclaimed softly. "You both look like a pair of regular researchers. What are you looking for?"

There was no point in lying, but I quickly decided to give him a half-truth. "We're researching Christine Daae, the lady Mr. Y is trying to book for a performance, Daddy. I'm curious about her. If she comes, I'd like to know a thing or two about her."

"True, true," Gangle chipped in.

Daddy's eyebrows rose. It seemed that he himself had been thinking on this subject as well. "How interesting," he said. "That seems reasonable to me. What have you found so far?"

I thanked Christ that my Daddy could not read shorthand; he could not tell that I had underlined and circled the phrase "Phantom of the Opera affair". He'd be completely fascinated and insist on getting involved in our research, and then it wouldn't be long before he discovered my true intent and declared me unreasonably nosy. I gave him a brief, tidy summary of Christine Daae's life that satisfied him.

"What an interesting life," he said. "I wonder if Mr. Y has ever met her before. I should say he ought to have; I haven't quite been able to forget that automaton..."

"Daddy," I moaned.

"Now, now, Ariel, I know the thought mortifies you. I wasn't going to say much more than that." He frowned. "Still, I confess myself surprised at Mr. Y. A man such as himself, keeping the form of a _lady_ in his..."

"Daddy!" I moaned louder, bringing a gloved hand to my brow for emphasis.

"And that is all I have to say," Daddy concluded. He patted my cheek fondly. "My precious, white-souled Ariel, so much like her mama. Such delicate nerves. Exceedingly attractive in a lady."

"Say, Alf," Gangle interjected, giving me a significant glance. "Me and Ariel want to stop off in the Italian District-I've got some ingredients to pick up. You see, I've got to teach those fool cooks in the Roman Colosseum Restaurant how to make sauce correctly. Now, I don't want to interrupt your reading, so how about we just get the shopping done and then come pick you up again?"

I could tell by Gangle's face that he wanted to discuss something with me. I could also tell by Daddy's face that he was nervous about letting me go out of his sight in the big city, even with the trusty Gangle. After all, the place was filled with all sorts of dangers, like falling pianos, and pocket-pickers, and speeding automobiles, all intent on my destruction.

Gangle seemed to sense this. "I promise you that she is completely safe with me," he said. "Won't let her out of my sight!"

Daddy spent another couple seconds looking unsure, and then he slowly nodded, looking at his pile of books.

"Alright," he said. "I will wait here. Be careful, the both of you, and I know you will mind your manners, Ariel."

(

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(

)

The general feel of Brooklyn and the Coney Island area has not changed much in fifteen years, but the appearance certainly has. Nowadays everybody's got an automobile. In my day the streets were filled with horses and carriages, and every now and again an automobile would come rumbling by, as if to shame them with their modern speed and shiny wheels. The air was a bit cleaner, too, and don't even get me started on how ladies dressed to go out walking. Hats and gloves and a respectable shoe-tip length dress were the order of the day unless you were a bum or a whore. That went for men, too, but with suits of course.

I'm not saying this to be an old crabby maid, I just want you to be able to picture the city just the way it was when Gangle and I walked through it on that summer's day, on our way to the Italian District. The air was warm and dusty. Teams of horses pulling milk wagons clattered past us. Young boys played with stones in the alleys. An old woman was knitting on her stoop, her feet on a dirty newspaper. As for Gangle and I, we were strolling quietly along in our sober Sunday clothes. We did not hold hands. In my day, that would have suggested that the two of us were involved. Whether we were long-time friends didn't matter; it simply wasn't being done.

Anyway, we walked in silence until the library was well behind us, and then I poked him.

"What did you want to tell me?" I asked.

He blinked a few times, then swallowed, and replied, "I tell you a little later."

I'd known him too long to be satisfied with this reply, and judging by his expression he knew it. He immediately plunged into a discourse about all the things he needed to buy, all the ingredients, how those cooks in the restaurant couldn't boil a decent pot of water, the blueness of the sky. He was either anxious or stalling for time, that was certain, but I could not discern why.

Once in the District, he chattered pleasantly in rapid Italian with the shopkeepers and patrons: swarthy, cheerful men in suspenders, black-veiled, chubby widows with rosaries, and old grandmothers who talked earnestly with him about food as they poked tomatoes and measured herbs and went through boxes of foreign-looking spices. I amused myself by looking at the big greased wheels of Romano and Parmesan cheese. Then I remembered the Suffragette Society papers.

"Do you speak English?" I asked an elderly lady who was reading an Italian psalter.

She looked at me and gave a regretful shrug.

"Good," I said, and gave her all the papers.

When all that shopping was complete, Gangle insisted on buying me coffee. We sat at a cafe, and after I partook of a few sips of the hot, sweet coffee, I looked at him seriously.

"Gangle," I said. "You are anxious. What do you wish to tell me?"

I caught him off-guard, and it showed. He cleared his throat. "More like a question," he said, turning concerned eyes upon me. His accent thickened. "Ever since opening day, all-a the week long, you no seem-a like yourself, Signorina. You nervous all-a the time, sad even. Every time Mr. Y come around, you always looking scared. No try to deny it, I know-a you too good."

I felt my cheeks burning. He had noticed. It was true. Every time we went up into the Ayrie to be dismissed at closing-time, the sight of Mr. Y at his piano, luxuriously fingering the keys, made my heart pound.

"He scare you, Signorina?"

"No, no, no," I denied vigorously. "No, Mr. Y does not scare me. I just don't know what to feel about him anymore. He confuses me. He's very secretive. That's why we're doing this investigation. So you're going to teach the cooks how to make sauce right?"

The sudden shift in topic seemed to displease him, but complaining about bad cooking was one of his great passions. A wry smile tugged his mouth.

"Yes, I going to! I tell-a them this very morning I going to. They make-a it all wrong, no oregano, and all-a the tomatoes not mashed good and cooked too hard. I tell-a them, no, no, no! You ruin the flavor! They think-a I crazy. If Mama and Giovanni could taste-a what they call 'Talian sauce, they die!"

I knew he had a Mama who died, but I never heard of a Giovanni, and told him so. He frowned.

"I never tell-a you 'bout my older brother, Giovanni? Huh!" His voice became normal again. "Well, for one, we look alike. Everybody always said we looked the same, only I was a bit shorter and not so handsome. Not so smart either. He had Mama's nice face and Papa's brains."

"Oh, Gangle! They didn't _really_ call you ugly?"

"No, not to my face."

"Oh, that's _terrible!"_

He smiled and shrugged, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair. "They never called me ugly. They knew I would beat them if they did." His expression softened. "I was not known for being a very self-controlled young man. I was very angry, not very nice to know."

"I should think you'd be angry if people called you ugly."

"Not just because of that. Other things." He did not seem to want to go into what those things were. "Anyways, Giovanni and I always liked to help Mama in the restaurant. Even if I was ugly, I was a much better helper. I was a better cook. Giovanni was better at getting his way, not doing work."

"Gangle dear, you are not ugly. I will not have you say so, either."

He smiled. "You remind of Mama when you say things like that. _Greg' ry! You bright boy! You not have to be like Giovanni. You special in your own way, Il mio bambino. _She was very special to me, my Mama. Nobody understood me like she did. When she died I lost more than a Mama. I lost my friend."

I could sympathize wih that. I sipped my coffee and swallowed hard, suddenly seeing my own Mama's gentle face in my mind's eye: her tender, dreamy eyes, her funny arm-stump, her voice telling me that I was her special baby. I shut my eyes against the sudden rush of grief brought about by this recollection, and the awful plunging of my heart. The emerald ring on my finger felt heavy.

A warm hand grabbed mine. "No worries. We not talk about this anymore. I don't want to take you back to your Daddy looking sad. How 'bout we talk about our investigation so far, Miss Sherlock?"

I swallowed my pain resolutely and dug out my shorthand notes. "Yes. Well, we've got a lot of biographical information, but the whole subject of the 'Phantom of the Opera affair' is really nagging on my nerves. Oh, that rotten book! Bringing it up and then not saying a thing about it!"

"Next time, we will find a book all about the Opera Populaire. We'll figure it out." He gave me an indulgent grin. "But Signorina, I think I have made a little connection."

"Have you?"

"Yes. Your notes say that the whole controversy happened in 1897. That is the very same year I met Mr. Y, and came to America from France."

My heart leaped. Why hadn't I thought of that?

"Furthermore," he continued, "That is the same year that the Viscount Raoul de Chagny married Christine Daae."

I remembered the fight in the Ayrie and almost jumped out of my chair. "And so that would be the same year that she turned Mr. Y down! So Mr. Y would have to have been in Paris!"

"At the same-a time as the Phantom of the Ah-perr-ah thing!" added Gangle excitedly, forgetting his grammar.

"And Madame Giry and Meg must have been there, too, to witness it!"

_"Si, si! _So they all-a must-a be from Paris! _Siamo intellegenti!" _

"That would explain their speaking French!"

"Well, we knew-a that already!"

At this point, we were both on our feet, coffees forgotten, screaming theories at each other like regular lunatics. We must have been quite a spectacle.

"So we know-a where Mr. Y and the Girys from," said Gangle, calming a bit to think. "That is very helpful."

I nodded, trying to make other connections with our information.

"Oh!" he suddenly yelled, jumping to his feet again. "Signorina! I remember something he tell me on the boat! I ask-a him why he come to America, and he tell me, 'Got into some trouble in France'! He got in trouble, did something bad..."

"You don't think...!" I cried, scarcely daring to believe it, "That Mr. Y may have something to do with...might be involved in...the Phantom of the Opera thing?"

"Maybe! But we know he cannot be the Phantom. The article says that he died. Maybe he was a helper?"

"We'll have to read about what the whole thing was about before we can make any guesses," I said. My head was swimming. "The next time we come to the library, we'll figure this out."

I couldn't help theorizing, however, on the way back to fetch Daddy. I kept seeing Mr. Y's masked face in my mind's eye, walking about in France. I saw Christine, and Madame Giry, and Meg. I tried to imagine the Opera Populaire. I pictured a phantom-perhaps like Poe's Masque of the Red Death-sweeping his cape over the whole assemby like a curtain, and everyone's voices blending into a low murmur. I was thinking so hard that I did not see the street as I walked. Once or twice, Gangle had to steer me away from a sidewalk crack or some trouble.

When we reached the library at last, Daddy was inside on his chair, ready to go home, but as I approached him I saw that something was wrong. He was pale, sick-looking, with half-closed eyes and a pained expression drawn out across his features. Gangle noticed it too.

"Hey, Alf!" he said, striding over with me in tow. "You feeling alright?"

Daddy didn't even try to shrug it off. "No," he said weakly.

His hands were cold.

"Oh no, Daddy, how long have you felt like this?" I cried, wishing we hadn't left him. "Are you nauseous?"

"Not nauseous," he replied. "I was reading, and all of a sudden this weakness came over me, like ice almost, and now I have this strange pain in my head." He squinted. "And the light hurts my eyes."

"You still feel weak?" asked Gangle.

"Yes, somewhat..."

We each took a side and helped Daddy up onto his feet. He blinked uncertainly.

"Okay, Daddy?" I asked. "Can you walk home?"

His sick face did not look confident, and when he took a few steps with us, they were very unsteady. I was afraid.

"Alf," said Gangle seriously, "If you're really feeling this bad, we'd better go get some help."

"No, no, please, let's keep going," insisted Daddy. "I think I'll be fine. Let's go."

We cautiously walked him out into the street, and the fresh air seemed to strengthen him a bit. The sunlight, however, made him look twenty times worse. I noticed that there were dark circles under his eyes, and the eyes themselves looked misty and unfocused. I was terrified by how sick he'd become in the time we'd been gone. Was he going to be okay? Dear, silly, proud Daddy never admitted things like this!

"I feel a little better," he said, although he definitely didn't look better. "Let's keep going."

And so, slowly, and sometimes falteringly, we made our way down the sidewalk. I gripped Daddy's hand and kept asking him how he felt as we went. It was truly an agonizing experience seeing him look so ill.

After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at the familiar gates of Coney Island, and at the quiet, Sabbath-keeping city of Phantasma.

Gangle wasted no time in bringing immediate attention to Daddy's condition. He sat poor Daddy-who at this point was breathing heavily and needed to rest on my shoulder-on a bench and swept right into where Aggie-Ann and a few others were singing banjo hymns and sipping tea.

"Alf's sick!" he interrupted hastily, causing the singers to stop in alarm. "I don't know what's wrong with him, but we've got to get the man something to drink, or even a doctor. He looks like he's about to fall over. Please hurry!"

Aggie-Ann abandoned the music, Damien quickly produced a cup of lukewarm tea, and Mrs. Beardsley came bustling over to me and Daddy, as everyone else looked on, murmuring in concern.

"Alfred, dear?" she asked him, taking his hands and rubbing them. "Can you see alright? Here, sip this tea, dear. Ariel, help him. Oh, Alfred, you look terrible. You need to get to bed right away. We ought to telephone for a doctor."

"Telephone for a doctor, you say?" said Damien capably. "What's his number? It's in our directory, right?"

"Yes, right next to the phone."

Aggie chewed her lip nervously as Ann asked, quaveringly, "Mr. Fleck's gon' be awright, isn't he?"

"I'm…fine…" my Daddy tried to interject, distressed at the attention he was garnering, but Mrs. Beardsley had already begun giving orders to the freaks who were beginning to gather around, wondering what the fuss was about.

"Which doctor? Isn't there one closer?"

"What's the matter with Alf, anyway? What's the last thing he ate?"

"I declare, Damien, stop standing about and just call any doctor! What does it matter which one? The man's sick!"

"Please!" cried Daddy. "Just…help me up…to bed…"

Mrs. Beardsley laid a cool hand on his brow. "Alfred, dear, you're not well…"

He struggled to get up, and I helped him. "Don't call any doctor," he insisted, his face still horribly drawn. "Please, Edna, just help me to bed and get me something to drink."

She reluctantly helped me steer Daddy into our home, calling for the others to fetch food and drink and not bother with any doctors. Carefully, I helped Daddy sink into the cushions of the bed, and he relaxed, exhaling and looking at me reassuringly.

"I guess I'm just dizzy," he said. He tried to laugh, but ended up looking delirious. "Probably just hungry. I am fifty, you know."

Gangle and Genny came sweeping in with juice, cookies, and a vial of spirits, which brought a refreshing pinkness back to Daddy's cheeks. Settled in the blankets, he looked much better, but tired. At our door, folks were peeking in.

"No reason to panic!" called Daddy. "I'm fine! I hope you haven't done anything unreasonable on my account. See? I'm fine. I'm just not used to be out and about so much on a Sunday."

"Nevertheless, Daddy," I told him, my lips against one of his tattooed cheeks, "I'm going to take care of you for the whole rest of the day, see if I don't. Dear Daddy!"

"I'll help you, Ariel," said Mrs. Beardsley decidedly. "In fact, I'll go and fetch some warm washcloths and some lavender."

Daddy's eyelids drooped. "I'm tired," he murmured. "I want to nap. Stop worrying so much. Ariel, pull that blanket over here…"

He wasn't kidding when he said he was tired. No sooner did the blanket nestle around him than he dropped off into an exhausted slumber, his decorated face growing blank and peaceful in the plush depths of his pillow.

"That father of yours," sighed Mrs. Beardsley. "I guess I'd better just watch him for a while. I don't like the idea of him slipping off to sleep after an episode like that. I still think we ought to get a doctor."

The whole Mr. Y affair went on my mind's back-burner at the advent of Daddy's mysterious illness, and now I looked upon his sleeping face, so still and disturbing. It had not been too long ago that I had looked at another beloved face, frozen in sleep, lying on a bed of satin, surrounded by banks of wilting flowers. My heart twisted. I suddenly imagined what it would be like if Daddy, like Mama, were to also suddenly die, and the sight of Daddy asleep presently became a horror. I would be all alone in the world without him, truly alone.

I grabbed his unfeeling hand and felt a wave of desolation sweeping over me.

"He just suddenly got ill at the library, Mrs. Beardsley," I felt obliged to confide, as though it might help. "He said he suddenly felt weak and cold. Is that very bad?"

"I don't know," she admitted, but her eyes had darkened when I described the onset of weakness. "But he is ordinarily such a strong man. This is very strange."

My mind started listing all sorts of potential disasters and nervous disorders, each one frightening me like a whole assortment of boogey-monsters.

"Don't worry, Ariel," Mrs. Beardsley quickly assured me, for I must have looked pretty sad. "I'm sure he just didn't eat enough for breakfast and got dizzy from that."

That was a nice, safe, non-threatening explanation, and so I clung to it in spite of all my mental reservations, and the remainder of my afternoon was spent watching over Daddy. I could not be persuaded to leave him for an instant, not even for singing or whatever little entertainment had been devised for our Sabbath evening. Mrs. Beardsley remained with me, helping. Ever since Mama died, she had swiftly assumed the duties of a sort of nanny when it came to Daddy, worrying about him and giving him all manner of womanly advice. If Daddy were not so completely dead-set against re-marrying, Mrs. Beardsley would make a good wife, although I never could imagine anyone taking Mama's place.

Sometime into my evening vigil, when Mrs. Beardsley went to fetch some food, good ol' Signor Watson (Gangle) came padding softly into Fleck Manor to check on the slumbering Daddy, a cup of milk and a magazine in hand.

"He okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, I guess it was only a case of hunger, not enough sugar." A sudden rush of anger towards Daddy leapt up in my breast and surprised me. "I don't know why he does this to me. He could be having a heart attack and he'd still say it was nothing. He could be dying, for Pity's sake, and still...!"

Gangle patted my back. "Probably just his way of being brave."

"It's not brave!" I hissed, suddenly furious. "It's selfish and prideful and _stupid! _You'd think by the way he goes on about being _reasonable,_ that he'd take his own advice!"

I saw one of Daddy's hands poking out of the blanket, so I tucked it back in, a tender gesture that clashed with my anger. I was actually shocked at how hatefully I was speaking of Daddy. Why, just a few hours ago I was almost paralyzed with fear, guiding him down the street, panicking at any little change in complexion, lest he faint or have a fit of nerves. Now that he was okay, I was calling him stupid.

"Not saying it's okay, Signorina," Gangle said, sitting beside me. "But you must know men have lots of pride. Not sensible like ladies. Your Daddy's getting old, fifty now, and probably doesn't like to admit that hard work is making him tired. No man likes to say that."

I felt the eyes of all the framed Fleck ancestors looking upon me, reminding me that we all must go the way of every mortal upon the earth one day. Once upon another time, they had walked this same floor with similar trials and tribulations; all that was truly different were the times and the clothes. Some distant day, Alfred and Ariel Fleck, like them, would join Mama and be nothing more than faded photographs on a wall.

"He'll be okay, Signorina." Gangle pressed a warm hand on my back. "Now, see here, I've got a little something that will be interesting for our investigation."

He gestured to the magazine. It was the monthly Edison cylinder catalogue, from which we usually ordered a few records for the phonograph machine. I looked at Daddy, wondering if he could hear us.

"Nothing ground-breaking," whispered Gangle, seeming to understand my trepidation. "No need for us to leave the room. But just look at what I found on page three!"

On page three, there was a thick bordered promotional ad, in which the sketched likeness of Christine Daae jumped out at me. Next to her face was a cylinder and the printed legend:

_Premiering on Edison Records: Christine Daae!_

We are pleased to introduce the first commercially available recordings

of the internationally acclaimed soprano. Two songs for one price.

"The Jewel Song" from Faust

"Think of Me" from Hannibal

The price-75 cents.

I looked up, dumbfounded at how the universe was making things work out, and Gangle's smile indicated that he shared my feelings.

"First time on record, Signorina!" he laughed. "First time! I ordered it for us. Now we can hear what all the fuss is about."

"Does Mr. Y know about this?" I knew he didn't bother with phonographs, but if he was really keen on hearing Christine...suddenly my heart burned. "Well, anyhow, let's not tell him. We'll keep it to ourselves. That's an excellent find, Signor Watson!"

The last thing I wanted was for Mr. Y to hear Christine singing and become even more enamoured with her. The very thought made me desperately angry. Whenever I went into the Ayrie, I had to keep my eyes to the right wall, lest I see the curtained chamber in which my hated rival was residing. Every night I prayed that some fiasco or another would prevent her coming. Perhaps another engagement or something. Anything! As it stood, he was having a bit of trouble securing a date. I heard talk of Hammerstein-yes, THAT Hammerstein-trying to out-bid Mr. Y for a singing engagement. Back and forth they were telegramming, raising the prices higher and higher, so high it made my mind spin at how anyone could afford it.

Mr. Y seemed confident that he would eventually win, to my deep, deep misery, so confident that he was putting together an aria for Christine to sing. Whenever I was walking up the Ayrie stairs or in the Ayrie itself, I always heard him working at the melody, a gentle, pleading, heart-wrenching tune that made me want to sit down and bawl. It didn't have a title yet, but _"Better Luck Next Time, Freak"_ would have been a good one. I tormented myself by humming it.

Eventually both Gangle and Mrs. Beardlsey bowed out for the evening, leaving me to watch over Daddy and wrestle with my emotions. On the bedside table was Mama's loveliest photograph. There she was, looking dreamily out of the frame, into the watery eyes of her baby.

I know it's stupid to talk to a picture, but I was feeling so bad that I couldn't help it.

"Mama," I murmured, hugging a pillow, trying to remember her smell, "I'm sad."

That was all I said, but suddenly I felt like I was being cut to pieces.

Bitter tears slid down my cheeks and all over my pillow. Nights like this made me want Mama, even if only for an hour, so I could put my head down in the softness of her lap and cry. At least I had Daddy. I snuggled next to him and relaxed, grateful that, at the very least, I was not all alone in the world.

_**(Miss Fleck stops the story here for now.) **_

Miss Fleck let out a sniff, but she waved away Mr. Whittington's hanky.

"No, no, I won't snot it up," she insisted, taking a deep breath. "I'm fine. Never mind Miss Fleck, she's a maudlin loony."

She and Mr. Whittington had been walking and talking, and had eventually sat down at a cafe for some coffee. They were inside, ensconced in a booth, reclining on the well-worn seats, the smell of cigarettes and brewing coffee heavy in the air.

"Hardly," said Mr. Whittington gently. "You're far from maudlin. Losing a mother is a hard thing." He averted his eyes wistfully. "Fathers, too."

This subtlety was not lost on Miss Fleck. "Are your...?" she began to ask.

He understood. "Yes. Both my parents are gone."

She looked at him through misty eyes. "I'm awfully sorry. I bet they were real decent people. You're a good sort, Jay."

"Thank you."

There was a sympathetic silence, and then Miss Fleck went digging in her pocket and withdrew a small, battered book.

"We need to lighten up this atmosphere," she explained, "And I've got just the thing. Found it on a park bench one day. I've kept it ever since."

"Really? What is it?"

She held the book up like it was a scepter. "_One Thousand and One Elephant Jokes._ Don't look so confused, it's exactly what it sounds like. I used to read classics like _The Inferno_ and _Treasure Island_, but now it's _One Thousand and One Elephant Jokes_ for me. How the mighty have fallen. Well, l won't keep you in suspense another minute. Here we go."

She smoothed the pages open and cleared her throat.

"Okay. What did the cat say to the elephant?"

She grinned cheekily, a mischevious light gleaming in her green eyes as she waited for a guess.

"What did the cat say to the elephant?" Mr. Whittington repeated. He took a deep breath and settled back in his seat thoughtfully. "Can't say I know. What did he say?"

"Meow," replied Miss Fleck.

It was so stupid that the both of them presently burst out laughing, startling a nearby waitress; and thus thoroughly amused, the two of them enjoyed the rest of their afternoon.

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS**

**1. Yes, I kow elephant jokes didn't technically exist until the 60s, but I needed a way for this chapter to end on a happy note. And I like elephant jokes. Because I'm lame. **

**2. Judging by the ever-increasing amount of hits I recieve on my update days, I've got a loyal following! Thank you, loyal following! Thank you very much! You're so loyal! And you're a following! Won't you please leave me a review? I allow anonymous ones, you know. **

**3. FUN FACT: I think of Fleck/Gangle's friendship whenever I hear the song "Chiquitita" by Abba. I just do. **


	8. The Lengths We Go For Love

Chapter Eight

"The Lengths We Go For Love" 

Rodger had a space in his schedule, so Mr. Whittington and his intrepid reporter pal headed to the prison for a further continuation of the story.

"I didn't forget your request," Mr. Whittington told Mr. De Rossi pleasantly upon greeting him. "I gave Miss Fleck a big hug." 

"Ah!" the prisoner cried. "I thought you would have forgotten. Thank you. Tell me about it." 

Rodger sat down and dug out his pad, looking a bit bemused but otherwise holding his tongue.

"Well," Mr. Whittington replied, "She apparently loves hugs, because she doesn't shrink away. She hugs you right back and stays there for a while. I'm a bit taller than her, so she sort of burrowed into my jacket. She's cute. When she's all cleaned up there's this flowery powder smell about her, in her hair and on her skin. When she's a little fatter, she'll be softer. Right now you can feel her thinness." 

"The flowery powder smell," Mr. De Rossi murmured happily, eyes closed in deep imagination. "I used to call it that, too. So she hasn't lost it. That makes me so happy. I can't wait to hug her again. But we've only got an hour, and I'd better get going with this story of mine. Update me." 

Once updated, he dove right in.

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

It had been my very first day of "investigating" with Ariel. I took off my drawers and jumped into bed. I turned off the lamp. I cocooned myself in quilts, and after I found a warm, comfortable position, I relaxed, and the eternal question popped up in my mind.

_What the hell are you doing, De Rossi? _

It was truly mind-blowing. Somehow, someway, Ariel had convinced me to join her on a Sherlock Holmes style investigation to figure out Mr. Y's identity, against all my reason, all my doubts, and all my protestations. I lay there in the dark, seeing the masked face of my boss in my imagination. I remembered the way the scattered light, streaming in through a crack in the deck, gave him that hunted, desperate look, that first day we'd met, on a ship bound for Ellis Island. He had the eyes of a frightened snake; they darted and stared and gleamed, warning anyone who caught his gaze that he could-and would-exact whatever force necessary to preserve his life. Madame Giry and little Meg, huddled deep in their coats, had the grim, nervous faces of potential prey.

"Friend," I still hear his voice, smooth and sharp as a razor, "I'll help you into America if you help me. Stay with me, and I promise you will speak again." His eyes darted. "I got into some trouble in France."

I wrote on a newspaper that I had gotten into some trouble in Italy.

"You will help me then?" It was a question, but as he said it, his hand snuck towards his pocket as though he might pull out a gun and kill me if I refused. It was clear to me that this was a thinly-disguised command.

I nodded. He smiled. Madame Giry and Meg looked at each other, and then away.

_This is insane, pal! You can't meddle in this man's affairs! You've got to back out! Ariel doesn't know Mr. Y like you do!_

My mind was as rational as ever, but my heart would not stop contradicting it. Yes, yes, we were treading on very unsafe territory, Ariel and I. All she knew of Mr. Y were his fanciful sketches and music. Only recently was she discovering the vaguest hint of his dark side. Nevertheless, I saw the wild longing in her eyes whenever he came near, heard the pain in her voice whenever she discussed the bidding, saw the delicious, obscene way her body quivered whenever she heard him play the piano. Would the idea of danger frighten her or make her even more intrigued?

I could not let her pursue him alone, even if it did torment me. Yes, there was a real element of interest and excitement in trying to uncover Mr. Y's mysteries, and I did enjoy using my head and having real comradeship with my beloved Ariel, but what if this led to consequences that neither of us could foresee? Why, just the other day, I discovered the man kept a loaded gun in the Ayrie. What else was he hiding?

I saw only one fringe benefit in this whole thing, and it was this: perhaps, if we discovered something unsavory about Mr. Y, Ariel would quit mooning after him, paving the way clear for me...another unsavory man.

That made my eyes tear up a bit. I put my head in the pillow. Here, I was, going on about Mr. Y's potentially dark past and misdeeds, when my own past was loaded with all manner of evil. I did more than have sex with a lot of women, let me make that abundantly clear. Even that fact would destroy my reputation. Aggie-Ann would faint. Genevieve would call up her suffragette friends and publically stone me. "Victorian-wedding-night-virgin" Alf would declare me _contemptible_ (the next step lower than _unreasonable_), and Ariel would never look at me again. And that was only one aspect of my wickedness!

I faced my resolution to become a new man with even more vigor than ever._ Oh, Ariel! If you only knew what you do to me, the lengths I go for your love. _

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Monday morning was blisteringly hot, and judging by the mystified exclamations of my fellow men-freaks as we went for the costumes, I wasn't alone in my feelings. The very sight of my black gabardine frock coat and suit with its long sleeves and lining made my skin burn.

"I think it's clear to me, as it oughta to be to anyone else," panted a damp-looking Damien, "That today we wear our lighter costumes. Genevieve tells me that's what she and the lady-freaks are doing. If Mr. Y don't like it, he can come down outta the Ayrie and tell me about it."

There was a moan of agreement. Jackets and gloves went aside, and we all dug out the lighter costumes, the gothic, oriental-looking robes designed to be worn on very hot days. The mirror was soon filled with all of our ugly, sweaty heads, bobbing around like red balloons.

"Look at us!" guffawed Mr. Geddes in his tiny robe. "We look like we're on our way to a goddamned Chinese slumber party!"

I almost smeared my make-up laughing with everyone.

"Well, don't we?" the midget roared, looking at his reflection. "Pass the damn egg-foo-yong!"

Then the door opened, and Alf dragged himself in. That meant the "goddamning" had to stop. However, by the looks of him, I don't think he would have cared. He looked like he'd just escaped from a frying pan.

"Summer costumes today, Fleck!" Tom informed him as he polished his lip piercings. "Never mind about the usual jacket!"

Alf's red, sweaty head nodded silently.

"Feelin' better?" Damien asked. "You'd think you were dying, the way Edna was carrying on. Genny, too, she never shuts up about anything." He drew in his chin, fluffed himself up, and did a cruel but perfect imitation of his sister. "Oh _Damien,_ I do declare you are the most _unfeeling_ man I have seen yet! How we are related I shall _never_ know!"

That was funny.

"I'm feeling fine," Alf grunted, reaching for the black eye-gunk. He looked beat. "I got a very long night of sleep."

You'd never know it by looking at him. Anyhow, we finished up dressing and headed down to eat and start a new day, determined to defeat the excruciating heat somehow. All of Phantasma seemed to shimmer and dance in the sun, distorted by the vibrating pockets of hot air. It looked like there were puddles everywhere, but that was an illusion, like those stories where he hero is lost in the desert.

"Daddy! Gangle!" came Ariel's voice, and there she was with the ladies, trekking close behind. If I were lost in a desert, I'd be glad to see a sight like that. She ran up to us, looking hot and stunning in her kimono. It had a beautiful silken peacock design, and it hugged her curvy little body, with its warm, moist skin so deliciously. If you looked closely (and I was) at where the silk was drawn tight across her lap, you could see the buttons on her garter belt.

_"Hey!"_ snapped Dr. Gangle in my mind. _"Don't stare at her legs like that! That's rude!" _

_"Rude yourself!" _sneered another voice, and I realized it was the little spirit of who I didn't want to be: Gregory De Rossi. _"Can't even see her legs! What's the harm?" _

There they were: Dr. Gangle and Mr. De Rossi, like a little angel and a little devil, fighting on my shoulder.

_"What's the harm? It's not good to dwell on Ariel in such a lustful way! It's not taking _her _into consideration." _

_"Oh, you. Like she can even tell."_

At this, Dr. Gangle asserted his most commanding tone. _"Why don't you say good morning to her instead? Also, you should make it your business to keep her feeling comfortable in today's heat." _

"Good morning, Signorina!" I greeted her politely in obedience to Dr. Gangle. "Hot today, is it not?"

"Sure is," she said distractedly, hurrying over to Alf's side. "Feeling okay, Daddy?"

The moment we got into breakfast, she insisted on giving him the coldest juice and the heartiest strips of bacon. Around the table she went like a busy little geisha, piling his plate with the choice bits from everything set out. She even cut his meat for him.

"There we are, Daddy," she cooed. "Gobble it all up!"

So absorbed was she in her self-imposed motherly duties that she scarcely ate anything herself and didn't talk to anyone. Alf obediently ate and drank. He looked tired but he smiled at his daughter's heartwarming concern for his welfare. When the meal was over and we had to report up to the Ayrie, he accepted her offer of a helping hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Up and up we went, round and round, up those dark spiraling stairs to the Ayrie.

"Not getting tired, Daddy?" she asked, and the echo made it seem as though the place were filled with nervous Ariel-ghosts, ready to jump out with vials of spirits.

Alf's voice had the faintest hint of a chuckle. "Not since five minutes ago, Baby Fleck. I'll live to see another day, don't worry."

The Ayrie was nice and cool. When we pushed upon the door, we stood in the doorway, sighing in delight as the rose-scented, refreshing breeze rolled over us. Mr. Y, who had turned from his piano, gave a brief chuckle of amusement.

"The weather must be just as brutal as the thermometer tells me," he deduced aloud, extending our schedules to us. "Have any of you seen Madame Giry today?"

We hadn't.

"Ah. No matter. I can just as well see her later. I'm in a regular Battle Royale with this Hammerstein fellow, but I believe this next telegram of mine will set him straight."

The Christine Daae automaton was covered up, but Ariel looked over at it anyway, her face suddenly drooping in sudden, intense misery. "Set him straight?" she asked feebly.

"Yes," declared Mr. Y, standing tall and proud, as though he had already won. His eyes twinkled. "The highest bidder wins, and unless Mr. Hammerstein happens to be related to God, I've essentially got Ms. Daae booked. It just isn't in ink yet."

"Congratulations, Mr. Y," said Alf like a true tattooed gentleman.

"Yes, congratulations, indeed," I chipped in.

Ariel's eyes closed. "You must be very happy," she mumbled.

On the way back down the Ayrie steps, I watched her stricken, lovelorn face, and a terrible pain gnawed at my heart. She loved him. She wouldn't admit it to me, or anyone else, but I could tell. I knew it ever since we had coffee together after our library visit; the way she dodged my prying, the tell-tale hesitation, it all became so obvious. She really loved Mr. Y. I may have been the Watson to her Sherlock, but you don't see the two of them strolling through flower fields hand in hand, do you?

Little did I know that my day was about to get a whole lot worse.

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Alf went on as planned, despite the heat, in a tented area where the patrons could get out of the blazing sun. The man had established quite a reputation as "The Mighty Mr. Squelch", many admirers, many fans, but not many friends. Today he stood, surrounded by engines, dumbells, avils, and all manner of heavy things, looking anything but approachable: his usual scary appearance was made scarier by the way the heat was reddening his skin and giving him the aura of a breathless, angry bull, raring to charge. Add that to the tattoos, the dark clothes, and the sober silence, and ol' Alf looked ready to bash someone's skull in. The patrons kept a cautious distance, not wanting it to be their own. I reassured everybody that he wasn't mean, but they kept their places, heads shaking.

I found it darkly funny how severely Alf was misjudged. They couldn't know that a half century of being a caged laughingstock had made him so quiet and unsociable. They couldn't know that he'd been tattooed to increase his marketability in the freakshow world, and not to be rebellious or bad. They certainly couldn't see the carefully-preserved photographs of the wife he had so loved, and the way he worried over his daughter. They could, however, see a tattooed, grim, distant-looking strongman, and it was upon this appearance that their minds were fixed. "The Mighty Mr. Squelch" was just terrifying.

Away Alf went, hefting avils and sledgehammers like twigs while men whistled and ladies giggled nervously, and when he was finished at last, he approached me. It was lunchtime, and the two of us always went to fetch Ariel from her Aviary. Oh, I never mentioned that?

Well, as part of her "Miss Fleck" persona, Ariel had her very own Aviary, a quaint little room filled with exotic birds: parrots, doves, macaws, larks, nightingales, and a great many peacocks. In her feather-lined dress, Peacock Queen Ariel sat on a lovely throne, where she was pleased to take pictures with patrons and show them her fine-feathered subjects. The birds were completely at ease with her. They treated her just like one of them. They sat on her, climbed on her, pooped on her, accepted seed from her hand, and seemed to really love preening her "feathers". In return, Ariel was as affectionate as a mother, giving them names and chirping at them.

"Lunchtime, Signorina!" I greeted her, but before she could do anything, this big peacock called "Charles" (named by Ariel) got right up in my face, jealousy burning in his back beady eyes. He stretched his beak wide and squawked, spreading his impressive fan of tailfeathers as arrogantly as he could muster. The curious blue ovals in the green, stringy feathers were like dozens of angry eyes glaring me down. There he was, the self-proclaimed King of the Peacocks, standing his ground on his skinny bird legs, stalwartly shielding me from his beloved Queen Ariel, who was dying with laughter on her throne.

The patrons thought this little confrontation was hysterical and laughed right along with her. But to Charles, this was no laughing matter. He loved Ariel. Whether it was the peacock feathers on her dress or her natural ability to attract men of all species is uncertain, but whatever it was, Ariel had Charles at hello. I actually witnessed the bird trying to woo her with a mating call one day, making a sound like a meowing cat, his raised tailfeathers quivering amorously. She had stroked his head and kissed him, which, I guess, was as good as a marriage vow to Charles, for now he hated me. Every day I came and took his Queen away to lunch, and every day he acted like he was going to take me down a few notches. I made sure my crotch was out of his beak-thrusting range.

"It's a regular love-triangle, folks!" Alf joked, winking at the crowd.

Ariel blushed.

"Charles!" she cried as sweetly as she could, and when the irate peacock looked at her, she crooked her finger. Like a little gentleman, Charles folded away his tailfeathers and went bobbing onto her lap. She set him on her throne.

"You've got to keep the throne warm, King Charles," she said, nuzzling his beak in a way that made me wish I were a peacock. "I'll be back. I always am."

And so it was that Alf and I were able to take Ariel to lunch, although Charles gave me a rather mean look on the way out.

This is where my day starts to get worse, by the way.

)

(

)

(

We were helping ourselves to cucumber salad and sandwiches when Damien decided to ask the question, right out of the blue. Couldn't have been at a more random moment. I was searching for provolone to pair with my prosciutto when he said my name, a bit hesitantly.

"Ah, hey. De Rossi."

I located the cheese and put it on my sandwich. "Yes?"

He took a breath, gave Genevieve a quick look, and then said, "I've got a question for ya."

"What?"

"Your voice." He looked down as though as needed to re-phrase it, then went on, boldly, "Mr. Y told us that your vocal cords got cut. I'd like to know how and by whom."

The whole table got quiet. I felt my innards twist hotly. A sudden vision of leering faces and the shrill scraping of knives flashed across my mind's eye.

Ariel jumped right on him. "Why, Mr. Pennysworth!" she scolded. "You know he doesn't like questions like that. And at the table!"

"Indeed!" Alf added, indignation stamped across his tattoos. "I don't see how it's your business."

Damien opened his scarred mouth to defend himself, but Genevieve was quicker.

"Well, by gosh and by golly!" she growled, and everyone braced themselves for an episode. "It was only a question; he needn't answer. But I declare! It's such a strange thing, and I think we're owed some form of explanation, don't you?"

"If we get any explanation, _ma'am_-" Alf said the word with more than a little sarcasm-"It'll be on his terms, and not yours. He doesn't owe you a bent nickel."

As all this animosity brewed, Dr. Gangle and Mr. De Rossi were at war within me.

_"You know,"_ Dr. Gangle said, _"You really ought to confess. If you're ever looking to get anywhere with Ariel, it wouldn't do to have this great dark secret looming over the whole thing. It's for the better."_

_"No!"_ cried Mr. De Rossi. _"She'll be disgusted. Why does she need to know? She'll never know you were lying!" _

In that moment, I made a hasty decision and waved my hands for silence.

"Please!" I cried. "Please, no arguing." My heart fluttered nervously at what I was going to say. "I will tell what happened to me."

The Pennysworth/Fleck battle came to a screeching halt, as did basically all of the table's conversations. A bunch of wide-eyed, interested faces turned my way. Ariel grabbed my hand as though she were going to protest.

"Er, really, De Rossi?" Damien gasped, surprised. "Well, ah, only if you really want to..."

I said that I did, steadying myself, Ariel's hand still in mine. It was as true as ever: _Oh, the lengths we go for love! _

"Here is what happened," I said, and it was as though I were opening a terrible time capsule. "My Mama died when I was a young man, and my brother and I lost the restaurant we owned. We fell on hard times, money-wise. Very hard times. I was always an unhappy young man, not very nice to know..."

Here came the bad things I was afraid to say. Ariel squeezed my hand harder and put her other hand on top of it, as if she knew.

"So when Mama died, I became even angrier, and when me and my brother started running out of money, I started doing all sorts of bad things to get it. I did bad things for other people so they would pay me, and eventually..." Here it came-"I joined the Mafia."

A chorus of amazed gasps and cries rang out all around.

"The Mafia?" stammered Mr. Geddes. "As in the _Italian men doing bad things_ Mafia?"

I nodded sadly, feeling my courage sapping away. Perhaps I would lie a little. Ariel still had my hand.

"Well, go on!" cried Genevieve impatiently. "What happened next?"

"Next," I continued, "I started doing crimes with the Mafia behind me..."

Damien interrupted. "You ever kill anyone?"

"Shut up, stupid!" hissed his sister, smacking him. "Go on, Mr. De Rossi, ignore him."

"I didn't kill anyone," I said. "But I still committed lots of crimes." Here I decided to start bending the truth around. "But one day it really dawned on me that I was a bad man, and so I decided to turn my fellow _mafiosos_ in, anonymously to the police. It worked, and a lot of them got arrested. But even though I was anonymous, the others found out, somehow..."

My listeners already seemed to anticipate where I was going with this, but I went on.

"I had already found a place to hide, but they all came together one night. I don't know how they found me, but they did. Lots of them came, so I couldn't escape, and they wrestled me down and put a gag in my mouth-" At this point, Ariel whimpered and squeezed my hand-"And then they took some chloroform and their knives, and they..."

I couldn't say it, so I simply pointed to the scarring on my throat. Everyone at the table moaned and gasped, touching their own throats, their eyes filled with fear.

"A day has not gone by," I confessed truthfully, "That I do not remember and truly regret it all."

"Oh!" cried Ariel as if she couldn't bear it anymore, and she hugged me. "Oh, that's _horrible!"_

"Mah Lawd!" gasped Aggie while Ann cringed.

"I'm real sorry to hear about it, De Rossi," growled Alf in stoic compassion.

"No kidding," marveled Damien, but he and Genevieve both looked rather ashamed. "Say, De Rossi, don't think on it too hard, will ya? Er, forgive me."

"Me as well," Genevieve added with an uncharacteristic meekness. "I feel perfectly beastly."

My mind was still reeling at my own audacity. I had confessed. My chest felt like a weight had been lifted off it.

"Please, don't worry," I told them, and then, in a moment of true levity, I pointed to my voice trumpet. "I beat those bastards in the end!"

Ariel burst out laughing, followed by the whole table. I laughed too. Deep inside, however, I knew that I had not spoken the whole truth.

_"Well, you sort of confessed,"_ admitted Dr. Gangle. _"But what if folks found out you lied in the future?" _

_"How would they ever find out?"_ Mr. De Rossi snorted. _"They're not mind-readers. And just look at how they lapped up your explanation just now. Just forget about it." _

The lunch continued more animatedly then before, as everyone started up their own giddy little discourses on crime and punishment, as well as redemption, caressing their throats gratefully.

Ariel opened her mouth to say something, but Aggie-Ann approached me and cut her off. "Er, Mr. De Rossi?" Ann ventured. "Yer sorry fer all the bad things ya did, ain'tcha? You repented?"

I assured them that I had, and I silently chuckled over the fact that I had not heard the word _repent _in years.

"Well, awright," the other said. "Jus' makin' shore! A man's gotta repent o' his sins if he's got plans t' go to Heav'n!"

Ann nodded seriously in agreement. I felt a tug at my sleeve.

"That is very true. Thank you for your concern," I told them politely. "But there's no need to worry about me. I repented long ago."

Satisfied, Aggie-Ann went back to her seat.

"Ah, what did you want to tell me, Signorina?" I asked Ariel, but she was looking over my shoulder in white-faced concern. I suddenly realized that Alf was clutching at my sleeve, and when I looked at him I was startled too. He looked terrible. He was bent forward like a big fist was crushing him. He stared at me desperately but was unable to make a sound, not even a cough.

"Alf!" I cried. "You okay?"

Ariel grabbed his hand. "Daddy? What's wrong?"

By now the rest of the table was noticing.

"Hey, is he alright...?" asked Damien. "Geddes! Pass the man some water..."

But before anyone could do anything, Alf's grip loosened and he slumped with a crash onto the ground, unconscious, where his whole body began to violently shake.

"Daddy!" shrieked Ariel, dropping to her knees beside him. "Daddy! Somebody help him! _Daddy!"_

Everyone leapt to their feet, yelling and panicking, and before long the whole dining tent was involved. Tom and Damien dipped their napkins in their water and tried to bring Alf around, but it was useless. He did not seem to hear anything. People went running for the doctor. I got on my knees and tried to steady the man, but I was so frightened I couldn't think straight, and he shook on, so hard that he was drooling and pissing all over himself and turning blue around the lips. I felt helpless. I seriously thought that the man was going to die, right in front of me.

Aggie-Ann started praying aloud. "Jees' Christ, take it away from him! Help him, Good Lawd!"

"Keep him on his side!" a voice shouted, and Phantasma's doctor, Doctor Lawrence, appeared on the scene. "Get a jacket or something, put it under his head!"

We used my frock coat. Over to the side, Genevieve and Mrs. Beardsley were trying to calm Ariel, who was hysterical. Her screams were horrible, primal sounds of fear without words that made the sight of Alf convulsing in his own spit and urine doubly nauseating.

The doctor knelt beside Alf and watched him. "It's a seizure," he told us. "Give him space. Everybody back up! I'm a doctor!"

And so the crowd was forced back, and after another awful minute or so, Alf suddenly stopped shaking and was still. He took a breath and opened his eyes slowly, feeling around, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings again. Ariel sniffed and whimpered.

"Sir?" the doctor asked. "Do you understand me?"

Alf mumbled. He looked like a big, confused infant. A few people helped him sit up and wiped his mouth, and Ariel went running to his side, followed by Mrs. Beardsley. Della and Genevieve went to Damien, who patted their backs. I felt miserably useless.

"Daddy," Ariel cried hoarsely, her eyes swollen. "It's me, Ariel. Oh, Daddy!"

"Alfred, dear," moaned Mrs. Beardsley.

The light of understanding seemed to suddenly illuminate Alf's eyes. Slowly, he looked around, and then he took a deep breath and sat up on his own. He looked up at the table and realized that he was on the ground, surrounded by people.

"Ariel?" he asked, feebly.

"Here, Daddy," she replied hoarsely, kissing his head. "It's alright, Daddy. You're better now."

He looked at her, at me, and at the doctor, his brow furrowed. "What... happened?"

When Doctor Lawrence explained that he'd had a seizure, he stared at him and then at me, not seeming to believe it.

"It's true, Alf," I said. "Remember what happened before? You grabbed my sleeve and tried to tell me something, but then you passed out, and this happened. I thought you were dying."

"I don't remember," he murmured, his face troubled. "I remember my juice, and...I don't remember any more. But, but... if I really had a seizure, why would it happen? I haven't-" All of a sudden he seemed to panic, almost in shame, and murmured-"I haven't had this happen in years."

Ariel kept hugging him, but she sat up, confused by this last statement.

"So you've had seizures before?" asked the doctor.

Alf closed his eyes. "I had them all the time as a child," he admitted, "And also as a young man. Big ones sometimes, and little ones the most. They didn't happen so much when I got older. I thought I outgrew them. It's been more than fifteen years since this happened. Was this...really a _big _one?"

We all assured him, most confidently, that it certainly had been a big one, and he bowed his head in unhappiness. All at once he seemed to become truly aware of the spectacle he had caused and how upset everyone (especially Ariel) had become. He also noticed the embarrassing mess he made.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," he groaned softly, cheeks reddening as he became aware of that last fact. "All over the place."

I quickly gave him my frock coat to disguise this fact, and the doctor insisted on geting him to bed and cleaned up. He sent Damien to tell Mr. Y. Mrs. Beardsley, along with me and Ariel, took the poor man back to Fleck Manor.

"I'll stay with Mr. Fleck here," said Doctor Lawrence after the patient was cleaned up and settled. "But there's no need to worry. Since he has a history of this happening, it is a lot less dangerous, although it is strange to have such a gap in seizures. I'll need to speak with your employer, though, and tonight I'd like to teach you, Miss Fleck, what to do if this should happen again when I'm not around. Until then, you all should get on with your schedules. Your lunch hour is just about coming to a close."

I hadn't even thought of the schedule once. This whole incident had completely thrown me off. I dug out my pocket-watch, which informed me that lunch was over in five minutes.

"It's alright, Doctor," Ariel said stoutly, sitting beside Alf. "I'll help you take care of Daddy."

Alf shook his head. "You're a good girl, Ariel, but no. There's no need for you to mess up your schedule. Trust me, I've had this happen before. It's just the mind losing control of itself, not dying. I'll be fine."

Far from being comforted, Ariel's face darkened in such fury as I had never seen her display towards her father.

"Well!" she suddenly exploded, eyes flashing, "That's a relief! It's so dandy to learn of this now, after I've had the Everlasting scared out of me! Goodness gracious! To see you so _sick_ like that! As though you were going to _die! _Why, I...!" She spent a hot moment glaring at Alf's stricken, sad face, and then dropped weeping into a chair, her nerves shot.

"Ariel!" the poor father moaned in distress, sitting up and going over to her. "Ariel, please don't take it like this. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"You keep secrets from me," she wept on. "Just like I'm a child. It's so _selfish_ of you. What else are you keeping from me?"

His tattooed face drooped and looked very sad. Doctor Lawrence and I just sort of stood there, helplessly looking at each other, wondering what to do.

"Er, Doctor? Mr. De Rossi?" Alf said weakly. "Please, could you step outside for a while? I need to have a discussion with Ariel."

I had to get back to my job anyway, so I headed out, but as I walked along I felt mentally exhausted. What a day. A confession of the past, Alf having a seizure, and I didn't even know how Ariel felt about what little I revealed of my past.

Half-way past the Grand Pavillions, I caught sight of Damien leading Mr. Y through the blistering heat, their jackets thrown over their shoulders. I decided I'd better tell them Alf was okay.

"Ah, Dr. Gangle!" said Mr. Y when I approached him. "How is Mr. Fleck? I'm on my way to see him. I understand he had a seizure?"

I told him all about it, and off he went. As for me, I had a day to see through to completion, tired as I was, and it would be a couple hours before I could think it out under the stars.

(

)

(

)

When night rolled in, the heat rolled out, and it was as if a curtain fell on a hot, sticky Act One of _Gangle's Very Stressful Day._ Hopefully Act Two: _Gangle's Night_, would be better. I collapsed on the cool boards of the welcoming bench and turned my gaze upwards. There they were again: the stars, my ever constant friends. They had followed me all the way from Italy. It occurred to me that the whole world could look up together and admire them together; we could be refreshed as one. I closed my eyes and forced the tension out. I filled my whole mind with nothing but stars, until the blank darkness of my mind was like a small starry sky, calm and gentle.

Ariel's voice was low when it invaded upon my starry sky. "Gangle," she murmured quietly. "You're not sleeping?"

I opened my eyes. The sight of her against the backdrop of the heavens was balm to my soul.

"No, Signorina," I replied. "Just waiting for you. Sit down. Tell me about your father."

She sat down and laid her head on my shoulder, looking just as mentally exhausted as I had been before the stars brought me back to a calm state of mind. I hugged her to let her know she was welcome. Her head sank deeper and became less tense. She had this beautiful smell, like flowery powder or something.

"Daddy," she mumbled into my neck, "Has a seizure disorder. His Uncle Ivan had it too. It seems to run in the Fleck family. That's what we talked about when he sent you and Doctor Lawrence out."

"Why did he never tell you?"

"Well, it wasn't all because of pride and sparing me the truth," she said, regret in her eyes. "I really shouldn't have yelled at him. He was also scared to tell. You see, Uncle Ivan had it bad, and back in the 1830s people thought it was a form of insanity, so they shut him in a lunatic asylum, and he died. Daddy told me that Grandpa would get so sad whenever he talked about his older brother Ivan. They loved each other."

That made me sad.

"And when Grandpa realized that Daddy had it too, he was so scared that he tried to make it a big secret. Whenever Daddy would have a seizure, he'd either hide him or shut him in a room or tell people he was faking it. Anything but tell them the truth, because he was afraid they'd make him put Daddy in an asylum too."

"Did any of his brothers have it?"

"No. Only him. It always embarrassed him so much, and it made everyone afraid of him. They thought he was contagious. He wouldn't go anywhere or do anything; his brothers would do things for him. He just liked to read by himself. The last time he had one of these gigantic ones was when I was very little. He's had lots of tiny ones since then, but it's hard to notice them. He never told me because he didn't want to upset me." With that, her report was through, and she slumped deeper onto my shoulder.

The mental image of a young Alf, spine twisted, being hidden in a back room to shake and convulse alone made me feel horrible. A lot of things about the man's personality suddenly made sense.

"I feel bad about all this, Signorina," I said. "There isn't anything I can do to help him, is there?"

She sat up. "Well, there are some first aid things you can know, just in case Daddy has a fit near you. Doctor Lawrence told me and Mr. Y all about it."

She explained that it was important to make sure he was on his side so he didn't choke on his spit or something, and never to put anything in his mouth, and to make certain he was away from anything he could hit. Other than that, there wasn't much one could do, except to let nature run its course.

"Mr. Y was very nice," Ariel said, smiling as though she could see him. "He's giving Daddy the whole rest of the week off if he wants to take it. Oh, and he liked your roses, by the way."

That threw me off. "My roses?"

In the dark, her green eyes were sparkly with amusement. "The ones you gave me for my birthday, you dope. You've forgotten already?"

"Ah, no! I remember," I said, my heart swelling. She still had them! "But haven't they died by now?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't let them wither," she explained. "When they were starting to dry up, I hung them upside down on the windowsill. They dried, of course, but because they were upside down they dried nicely and didn't droop, so I can put them in a dry vase and display them. Mr. Y thought they were wonderful." A bright spot of pink appeared on each of her cheeks. "Roses are Mr. Y's favorite flower, too."

I felt a bit betrayed, even though I didn't have much of a right. "Are they? I'm glad," I answered mechanically.

For a while, there was silence, and then Ariel said, reluctantly, as though someone were forcing her:

"I've been thinking about what you said at lunch."

My heart jumped with nervousness. I couldn't discern by her tone how she felt about it.

"Don't look so frightened," she added quickly, grabbing my hands just the way she did earlier, and it comforted me. "I just want to know why you never told me before."

"Same reason as your father," I said honestly. "Didn't want to upset you. But it was even more than that. I thought you would be afraid of me, not want to be around me anymore."

"Ohhh," cooed Ariel in the universal sound that women make when men say something heartfelt. "Oh, Gangle dear. You must really think I'm a rotten person. You can't get rid of me that easily. Don't you know I trust you? _Te voglio bene!" _

_I like you, _that's what she said in Italian.

"I'm so glad you trust me, Signorina. But I was afraid that you wouldn't trust me anymore when you found out what a bad man I used to be."

"I believe the key phrase here is _used to be," _she pointed out. "I can't say I wasn't surprised to find out that you were in the Mafia, but you've turned away from it. You've repented. You don't want to commit crimes anymore, do you?"

"No!"

"Exactly." Brown eyes met green eyes as she gazed deeply at me. "Have I any reason to be afraid of you? Would you ever hurt me?"

"I would never hurt you, Signorina," I said with true conviction.

"So there we go!" she declared, satisfied, but then she settled back onto my shoulder looking a little unsettled. Something was still on her mind. I saw her eyes gaze at the stars, and then drift over to the glowing eyes of the Ayrie.

"Thinking, Miss Sherlock?" 

"Yes, Signor Watson." She tried to sound cheerful but only succeeded in sounding pained. "Days like this give one plenty to think about. They make us reorganize priorities." 

"You're worried about your father?" 

She swallowed and nodded, closing her eyes, and looked away from the Ayrie. "Very worried." 

"Did Doctor Lawrence find anything bad out?" I asked. "Something I haven't heard?" 

"No, he's just trying to find out what's triggering his fits to happen again. He's putting him on this special diet and everything, and now he can't do acts as much. But I think it's Mama." 

"Your Mama?" 

She nodded and looked sadly at her ring. "Daddy hasn't been the same since she died. Sometimes, right out of nowhere, he'll become so depressed about it, very quickly. I think he feels even worse than he lets on, but he keeps it a secret so I don't worry. Just like this seizure business. Men are so _secretive."_

It was true, even if I were only able to use myself as an example. But I didn't say that, of course.

"Like Mr. Y!" she used as an example, and then she looked back the Ayrie. Then her eyes shot open. "He… wait! Wait! You came over to America on the same boat as Mr. Y. Does he…know you're from the Mafia?"  
"Yes," I said.

"Did he know at the start?" she asked frantically.

"Yes," I said, a bit uncomfortably. Where was she going with this?

"And he wasn't afraid of you?" 

"Not at all," I said truthfully. "After all, he said he did bad things too. We were both getting away from a bad past, so we helped each other." 

"You don't think…" At this point Ariel jumped up, eyes alight with brilliance. "You don't think Mr. Y is from the Mafia too, do you?" 

I almost laughed, but I strangled it into a smile. "No, Signorina. The Mafia is Italian, not French. Another name for it is _Cosa Nostra, _and that's Italian. Even the American Mafia was Italians in it. There is no French Mafia." 

She sunk back into her seat, deflated. "Oh. Then…why was he running from France? Oh, this is confusing. There's so much that confuses me! It's too much." 

"Look at the stars and forget for a while, Signorina," I offered, letting her into one of my most cherished customs. I know she would not laugh at me. "Pretend your mind is one big starry sky. You'll feel better. Here, put your head down and let it all unwind. Leave behind all the hurt and confusion. It's good for you. I will even shut up so you can concentrate." 

"Can't very well pass up that offer," she chuckled. "My dear Gangle!" 

It took her some time to really calm down and empty her mind, but at length she rested, and I cherished what little time I had her, even this indirectly, to myself. And so it was that _Act Two: Gangle's Night _was an enjoyable end to the show.

_**(Gangle ends the story here for now.) **_

The hour was up. A grateful exchange of goodbyes, and then the two men were back in Brooklyn. Rodger had places to be, and so Mr. Whittington walked home alone, and upon his arrival back he was enthusiastically received by Miss Fleck.

"I was just setting out something nice for me to wear," she explained, gesturing to some clothes lying on the couch. "Tomorrow is Sunday! I get to see him in the flesh!" 

"Ha! I almost forgot about that," admitted Mr. Whittington.

"I never forget. Until recently, it's all I had to look forward to. Tomorrow you can look at Daddy's journal and my old things while I'm off shooting the breeze with my beloved _Signor. _Until then, sit down and eat. I made some potato salad for you. Remember that bacon fat? Well, I finally found a use for it. Eat up, eat up!"

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS: **

**1. I don't anticipate too tremendous of a shift in my schedule, but I am an active church lady/housekeeper/maid, and the holidays are approaching, and about 20 pages of writing a week is a lot to do. In a few weeks, I may need to take a brief but temporary hiatus from writing in order to catch up. **

**2. Guess what? We are a teensy bit more than 1/3 through "City of Wonders"! **

**3. Thank you for reading. **

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	9. One Armed Angel, Part I

Chapter Nine

One-Armed Angel, Part I

Donning a smart brown dress, a coat with a fur brim, and a neat little cloche, Miss Fleck went brightly to see her dear Mr. De Rossi, escorted by Mr. Whittington. He took her as far as the prison steps.

"I'll return in an hour to see you back, Ariel," he told her, holding open the door. "Tell me how the man's getting on later, won't you?"

"Naturally," she agreed. Her countenance was merry and flushed at the prospect of seeing her friend. "See you later!"

In she strode, and Mr. Whittington was free to return home and have a look at Mr. Fleck's journal. He settled down on the old red couch, carefully turned the yellowed old pages, and had a look.

_**(Mr. Squelch's journal starts here.) **___

If life isn't just one thing after another! This day has been terrible. As I'm writing this, I'm lying in bed. Doctor Lawrence is making me tea, and Edna is bringing me a tray from dinner. Ariel and De Rossi are star-gazing, probably discussing me. I'm feeling pretty bad. Today at lunch I had a huge seizure, the first one I've had in years, in front of God and every person in the dining tent. I did it all. The thrashing, the drooling, the other unmentionably embarrassing bodily function, the whole nine yards. I never told anyone I had these sorts of issues, so I scared the dickens out of everyone, particularly Ariel. She was madder than a hornet. I guess she has the right, too. If I ever told her I actually had a tiny seizure at the library yesterday, and what I was feeling on the way home were the after-effects, I guess she'd tie me to a tree and shoot me.

Mr. Y has given me the whole week off, which I'm sure he expects me to take, and it seems inevitable that I am now officially the "invalid" of this establishment. Right when I thought I had this thing beaten. At least I'm not Uncle Ivan. I told Ariel all about that, and how Dad used to go to great lengths to cover up my issues. I explained all that to her. She was so mad that I never told her, but I think she understands me now. My precious girl is just like an angry, worrying version of her mother.

Speaking of which, my wedding anniversary is coming up. If Polly were still here, this would have been our 23rd anniversary, for we married in 1884. I will never forget this date, because it is a day that I thought would never happen. Polly and I got married against such ridiculous odds. I still can't believe she existed, or that out of all the men on earth, she chose a deformed, tattooed young man with a seizure disorder, who lived in a freakshow, had no ability to get a real job, owned no property, and had about a sixth-grade education. Additionally, there were no guarantees that I could successfully sire any children. I was very strong, but that didn't help very much. As far as marriage material went, I was the bottom of the heap.

Until Polly, I had zero experience with women. I didn't even have a mother. My mother, Lavinia, was weakened pretty severely by my birth, and when I was five days old, she had a sudden attack of apoplexy and died. And I mean sudden. I was nursing on her breast, and Dad left the room. When he came back with a newspaper, she was dead, and I was still sucking away as her body grew cold. It was like I had sucked the life right out of her. All I ever knew of my mother were a few old sketches and daguerrotypes, my Dad and my brothers' memories, and the sad fact that I, Alfred the Shaking Hunchback, indirectly caused her death. My life was off to a great start.

Today, me and Ariel live in the same little home ("Fleck Manor", they call it) that my brothers and I grew up in. The main room has not changed much, only now we have electricity and a lot more pictures on the wall. The two bedrooms are set up different, too. Sometimes I sit at the table and close my eyes, imagining myself as a little boy, sitting at the table with my Dad and all four of my brothers. We were all tattooed and deformed to some extent. I was the most severely affected, and on top of that I had a seizure problem, so I was "Al" (not "Alf", that was later), the Fleck family's spoiled baby. I still hear the banter, just as it was one day in 1863:

"Daaaad," I'd whine, bent over my oatmeal. "I want more syrup."

Dad's wrinkled, tattooed face would appear over his newspaper, which always contained developments of the ongoing Civil War. "No, Al," he'd say. "There's quite enough syrup in that oatmeal. It's unreasonable of you to eat so much of it when your brothers barely have any."

Edgar, my oldest brother, would always silently nod in agreement with Dad, and so would Charles. They were the oldest, and felt their duties keenly.

"Indeed, Al," Wilbur would add, insolently, while John pretended to shake. "Don't be such a selfish little hunchback."

"No-o-o-o!" I'd roar like a sore little bear, banging my spoon. "Shut up! Daaaad!"

Down went Dad's newspaper, with the stern ultimatum: "You all pipe down and eat your food, and I don't mean maybe!"

Oh, the memories. It was one of the few memories I have which contain all of my brothers and I together, for shortly after that they began to die. When you've got a deformed skeleton, you're naturally unhealthy, and sicknesses are harder on you.

First we lost John to pneumonia, in 1867, when he was thirteen and I was ten. It was so fast. He took ill one day, spent a week gaspng pitifully in bed, and expired against my weeping Dad's shoulder a week later. It was a tremendous blow to our little family. I remember being hoisted up by my armpits so I could look upon John in his casket, see his frozen, waxen face, surrounded by violets and baby's breath. It scared the dickens out of me. Somehow I couldn't grasp that he was in Heaven when I saw him like that.

"My Johnny," said Dad sadly some days later, looking out at the rain. "He's gone ahead of me, and I can't follow him just yet."

Sitting on my bed, bent and miserable, I couldn't even conceptualize any such comfort. All I knew was that John's ball and hoop were sitting in the corner. They would never know him anymore.

Then we lost Wilbur in 1875, when he was twenty-three. It was an infection of the lungs, and the bizarre bend of his spine caused undue pressure to be put upon them, which made it worse. Yet another harrowing funeral, yet another blow to my poor father. At this point, I was eighteen, and had a more mature grasp of death. I missed Will terribly, but when I remembered his days of suffering, I was so glad to know he was in Heaven. Still, his ships-in-a-bottle gathering dust in the corner made my throat swell every time I saw them.

Tragedy struck again seven years later, in 1883, with the sudden death of Charles, who had been feeding the horses. He always did this, but a new horse, unused to people, had been brought in that day. The sight of tattooed, bent Charles, even with a carrot, scared the beast, and he kicked him to death. The offending creature was shot, and Dad recieved one-hundred dollars.

"As though one-hundred dollars could buy my boy!" wept Dad.

At the time, I was twenty-seven, and becoming accustomed to the cruel reality that life was unfair. I rejoiced that Charlie was with the Lord, but the sight of his charcoal sketches of horses made me very sad.

Poor Dad! If I needed any further evidence that the man was a rock, it came a week after Charlie's funeral, when we were informed by telegram that Uncle Tim (his older brother) had died of a heart attack. His widow, Aunt Fanny, was very lonely and wondered if Edgar or I would like to come stay with her and keep her company. I couldn't because of my disorder, so it was Edgar who took the offer, rather gratefully.

"Makes me guilty to say it, Al," he told me as he packed and prepared to catch the next train to Albany, "But I'm glad to go. This place feels like a giant funeral home. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. I'll visit as often as I can."

A puff of smoke, a wailing whistle, and away went Edgar, leaving me and Dad to return alone to Fleck Manor. We stepped over the well-worn threshold and stood in silence. It was the same home we'd always known, with the same smell of scuffed wood and old pomander balls, the pictures on the walls, and that big old table with its seven chairs, but something about it semed so alien when only Dad and I were in it and our footsteps echoed.

At length, we sat down. We didn't talk. Dad's eyes lingered on all the scratches the table bore, all the stains caused by food and drink, all the nicks and dings that had accumulated over thirty-five years. He looked at them as though they told a story, the story of his life as a husband and a father of five rowdy little boys. Then he slowly looked up and looked at me, his sickest and most severely deformed boy, sitting before him, with four painfully vacant chairs, as poignant as Tiny's Tim's abandoned crutch, standing beside me. He put his head down and wept.

I didn't know what to do or say, so I sat in silence, feeling the desolation sweep over me and amaze my soul. Ed was right. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

_Well, Lord, _I thought miserably to myself. _Here we are. It's unreasonable of me, most likely, to complain, but I wish there were some way to make this house feel like a home again. It would have to be a miracle, of that I'm sure, but can't You help? _

Little did I know that I would have that prayer answered. Two weeks after Ed left for Albany, the Flying Papakonstantinau Family arrived at Coney Island. We were one of the stops on their tour.

)

(

)

Another day, another cage. It was July 20th, 1883. Dad and I were "The Bizarre Flecks", a part of the Astley's Astomishments freakshow, the same freakshow that my daughter would be a part of until 1906, when Mr. Y shut us down. Over the years, freaks have come and gone, died, been purchased by other shows. There was Dog-Faced Derek, the 600-pound lady, some Siamese twins...they're all gone now. The only freak who has remained from the old days is old Mr. Geddes.

Anyhow, there we were, father and son, doing what we did best: sit behind bars and look goofy while ladies and gentlemen gazed on, although in those days the patrons were looking pretty goofy too. In those days, this awful thing called a "bustle" was popular with ladies. Imagine fastening a birdcage to one's backside, and then putting on a dress over it. That was a bustle, and the popular sentiment towards them was "the bigger the better", resulting in ladies who looked as though they could actually be centaurs if I looked under their skirts.

Dog-Faced Derek sat beside me. "Al. Did you know there's this aerialist family from Athens that just arrived today?"

"Athens?" I asked stupidly.

"Athens, Greece, Al," he clarified, rolling his eyes amusedly at my Dad. That made him look like a cocker spaniel. "They're doing their first show on our lunch break. Come see it with me, if only for the girl."

That got Dad's attention, but not mine. I had resigned myself to the fact that I would be a lonely hunchback for the rest of my life, and I had no intention of gazing upon beautiful women and tormenting myself with frustrated desire. What good would that do me? It was hard enough, being a twenty-seven year old man passed by, daily, by ample-bosomed, pink-lipped women, and knowing that the joy of their love was something I couldn't ever have. Better to just read books all day! What a rotten world!

"The girl?" my Dad asked. "Who's the girl?"

"Apollonia...some long mumbo-jumbo Greek last name," Derek replied. "Anyhow, that's not important. The catch is this: she's only got one arm!"

"A one-armed aerilast?" Dad laughed heartily. "I'd like to know how that works out."

Derek looked out beyond the bars as though he could see her. "They call her the One-Armed Angel," he said dreamily, admiration in his dog-like face. "And if she looks anything like she does on the poster, that's a good nickname. Come on, Al, and you, Estevan. Aren't you curious to see how a one-armed girl does acrobatics?"

What can I say? Dad and I were intrigued, and judging by the crowd lining up for "The Flying Papakonstantinau's" first show, so were a lot of other folks. In I went, against my blaring conscience.

A clash of orchestra, a burst of lights, and the aerial rigging was illuminated by a spotlight.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" trumpeted the announcer. "From Athens, Greece, the Flying Papakonstantinau Family! Comprised of the honorable Apollo..."

A swarthy, pleasant man waved at the crowd.

"His wife, Frances..."

A woman who looked just like him waved as well, her hair decorated with feathers.

"And their daughter, the one-armed angel, Miss Apollonia!"

And there, popping up perkily between her parents, appeared the cutest girl I ever saw in my life. She had the creamiest, most soft-looking skin, colored like light coffee. She had dark eyes, a dear pleasant face, and an elaborate coiffure of black hair that was complimented by the latest craze in ladies' hair: the lunatic fringe. (Nowadays we call it "bangs") She wore a white get-up with feathers in her hair, and where one of her arms should have been was a little stump.

"Call me Polly!" she yelled prettily, waving her one arm, and her little stump twitched as though it wanted to wave too. I chuckled at it, a deep, burning warmth starting in my heart and spreading all over my body.

And away they went! They really did fly, doing all manner of trapeze stunts, but all I saw was Polly. I wondered if she knew how cute she was. Some women seem to realize their beauty and capitalize on it most keenly, and I always found this supremely unattractive, but Polly just seemed "happy to be there", as I like to say. She was having fun doing what she liked, a dear, unpretentious smile on her face as she went.

After doing trapeze with her parents, Polly went solo on the aerial hoop.

"Zito i Ellada!" she cried, unfurling a huge Greek flag. "Long live Greece!"

Down it fluttered like a great blue and white swan, and then this one-armed angel proceeded to stun everyone (especially me) with how proficiently she could do acrobatics despite her setback. Years and years later, I feel a tender joy whenever I see Ariel doing what her mother used to love. It reminds me of this wonderful moment. She ended her routine by kissing her fingers and giving the crowd a little wave.

Now, if you'd have told me back then that this beautiful Greek girl, with her lovely face and sweet disposition, would one day be my wife and bear me a child, I would have called you unreasonable and crawled away, grumbling, although the longing would have remained. It did that day. I let my eyes linger on Polly for one last moment, and then I crawled back to my cage, where folks like me belonged.

_You've been a fool,_ Al, I told myself miserably. _What outcome did you expect? She is not of your world. _

The grinding scrape and clatter of the bars locking behind me had never sounded so terrible.

)

(

)

The Papakonstantinaus were engaged with Coney Island for a month, but I never went to any more of their shows. I couldn't. Seeing Polly made me feel a whole slew of intense, fiery, tortured emotions that would only be intensified by further contact, so I avoided it. I read books, as I always did, in my spare time, but somehow she always found a way to haunt me even there. Every time a hero talked of a beautiful heroine, I saw Polly, regardless of the physical description, and I was so unhappy that I forswore all romantic novels. Only rough tales of cowboys and pirates for me!

In 1883, there was a brand-new book called _Treasure Island _that was really quite a sensation; everybody who loved books was mad about it.

"Have you read _that book?" _someone would ask.

"Yes, yes, I have, God bless him!" would come the hearty reply.

I managed to procure a cheap edition, printed small on coarse paper, out of a catalogue. I was interested to see what all the fuss was about. When it arrived I waited for sundown, and then I took it to a well-lit restaurant in the park. I crawled into a corner where my appearance was unlikely to garner much attention, opened the book, and began to read quietly to myself.

"Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17— and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow Inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre-cut, first took up his lodging under our roof..."

I was immediately absorbed into that wonderful story. All around me, waiters waited, smoke curled about in wisps from glowing cigars, floorboards creaked, glasses tinkled, and lewd jokes were cracked, but rather than distract me, all these things contributed to the ambience. I felt like I was really there with the narrator, in the Admiral Benbow Inn. I was so intrigued and pleased that I remained ignorant of a certain one-armed listener, who had seen me reading and sat down beside me.

I was getting to a particularly dramatic moment when a sweet, musical voice piped up.

"Hello."

You can imagine how insane I felt when I looked up into the brown eyes of Apollonia Papakonstantinau, who did not seem embarrassed by her intrusion. There she sat in her glory, in a dress of brown silk, her pleasant face sitting above a cascade of white lace that was pinned with a cameo brooch. Oh! She was even more beautiful up close. I tell you, I almost did the "hyperventilate and fall down" thing.

Before I could even formulate a response, she leaned forward and smiled. Raising her one arm, she brought her fingers to my head and began tracing the paths of my tattoos. Something like electricity tingled all over my body and made my heart pound. What was she...?

"I like your reading," she informed me, still tracing. "But I like your face the best. You're beautiful!"

She thought I was beautiful! I didn't even know what to do. That was too much, too fast! On and on Polly traced, scooting around on her knees to reach the back ones, her perfumed bosom sometimes pressing into my face. About a million thoughts went racing through my numb brain. Some were romantic, some were vaguely sexual, and one suddenly caught my attention.

"Miss...Polly..." I managed to gasp, "Why...? Are you alone? Where are your parents?"

It wasn't exactly the most romantic thing to say, but in those days it wasn't nice for a man and a girl to be alone like this. Touching each other's faces on a restaurant floor was darn near scandalous! She stopped tracing and sat back on her heels, a rather wicked look in her eyes.

"My parents are asleep," confessed Polly, her voice still containing a childish, sing-song lilt. "I like to look at things at night, when no one can follow me. I saw you come in here with your book, so I followed you."

"Why?" I asked. This whole situation was almost dream-like.

"Because your face is beautiful and squiggly!" she said sweetly. "And, and, and...you can read!" Her eyes grew sad. "I can't read. Whenever I try to read, the letters move around and twist themselves in shapes, and so I can't read. I'm an imbecile, you know."

"You? An imbecile?" I cried, shocked that lovely Polly (who thought I was beautiful!) felt this way about herself. "Certainly not! I think you're.." I struggled stupidly with words for a moment, and then I blurted, "I think you're _brilliant." _

She smiled sadly. "No. I'm a real imbecile. Or maybe I'm just a dummy. You see, they measured up my IQ, and I got a bad mark. And I can't read. Did I tell you that?"

It became clear to me after a bit more talking that Polly really wasn't quite right in the head. Her funny voice wasn't an act; it was genuine, as was her cute goofiness. She tried to read my book, but after a few moments her face tightened in anger as she tried to understand the words. At last she tossed her head aside in disgust and sighed, "It's no use. I'm too much of a dope."

That made me sad, and my heart surged with a longing to make her happy.

"Well," I offered, "It just so happens that Treasure Island is just the book to read aloud. Do you want to listen some more?"

"Oh, yes!" she said eagerly. "Please, Mr..."

"Al," I finished brightly, but then I realized that this was a bit too familiar to be decent. "Well, that's what Dad calls me. My real name is Alfred Fleck."

It felt only right to shake her hand, and so we did.

"And my name is Apollonia Papakonstantinau," she said. "But my Dad calls me Polly."

Without further ado she settled down next to me and listened to the rest of the first chapter, unable to believe my luck and audacity. Suddenly Treasure Island was just that much more excellent. Polly was the perfect listener, cheering when something good happened, giggling when something was funny, and making low sounds in her throat when something serious was going on. So demonstrative was she in her enthusiasm for the story, that I felt like I knew her by the time the first chapter was over.

"Ooh, Alfie!" she cried when I was through, dubbing me with the nickname she'd call me for the rest of her life. There was no getting away from it now. "You read so nice. Can I hear you read more tomorrow? Will you come here again?"

"Yes!" I said excitedly, not thinking it through. "Yes, I will come if you will be here."

Polly said that it was a date and went prancing out the door, causing a few patrons to look after her and then at me, wonderingly. I sat there, stunned, holding my book. Had I really been so audacious as to call this young lady-this aerialist-to a restaurant every night, without her parents knowing of it? To sit with me, a freak? It all felt like a dream.

Oh, but she said I was beautiful! And she called me Alfie! This lovely girl told me that!

So you see, love can make a man very unreasonable.

)

(

)

I returned to the restaurant, the very same one, the next evening, Treasure Island in hand. Naturally, I was a lot more spruced up than I'd been the other night. As I dragged myself to my corner, careful to dodge footfalls, I felt like I was living in a dream, a novel. Perhaps Polly would not come. Perhaps I had been hallucinating.

_Jingle! Jingle!_ said the the bells on the door, and with a rush of cool air, Polly breezed in. There was her familiar, wonderful face. My chest swelled like a giant balloon. Yes, it was all true! I was so happy that my hands trembled and I could scarcely stammer out a greeting.

"Alfie!" she bubbled, wiggling her stump. "You're so easy to find."

"Oh," I replied stupidly. "I'm glad you came, Polly! You're easy to pick out in a crowd too, you know."

She nodded seriously, gesturing to her stump. "Yes. There aren't many girls who were born with a stump for an arm. But, but, but Alfie, did you know that God ripped it off?"

I blinked. I must have missed that part in the Bible. "Eh?"

"It's true!" she told me. "When I was going to be born, God didn't want me to leave. He loved me. So he grabbed my arm and pulled hard, very hard! But my parents really wanted me. They pulled too. God pulled, they pulled and all at once my arm ripped off. My parents won! So now I have this stump. But it's nice because I look at it and remember that God loves me."

She looked at that stump with genuine pride, then at me.

"God must really love you too, Alfie. Why, just look at what he did to you! He even colored on your face."

That made me laugh. I didn't have the heart to contradict her fantastic story.

"You're right, Polly. I guess we're both very beloved of God!"

"And, and the rest of your friends, too!" she added, referring to the other freaks. "They should put a big sign on where you live that says_, Be nice to these people, because God loves them." _

Wouldn't that be a nice change. Better luck next life.

"Well, we've got a lot in common, don't we?" I said, opening Treasure Island. I wondered what she'd say if I told her God also made me have shaking fits. Hmm. I decided not to tell. "Both real friends of God, who both love stories! Want to hear more of this one?"

"Yes!" she cheered. "I love books. I think it's just amazing how you get the words to obey you. They don't want me to read them, but I guess you make them sit still!"

"Why, yes," I said. I felt important, even though I didn't have much of a right. "Yes, I do."

Back we went, into that story, the outside world of no consequence. All that mattered was the world of pirates, the adventure, and the warmth of Polly, who came close to me and laid her head upon my shoulder. Sometimes I felt her stump twitch against my arm when something exciting happened. Sometimes I felt her eyelashes flutter. All of it made me desire her more and more.

_Al!_ my conscience cried all the while. _Al, you can't allow yourself to become this attached to her. She is not of your world. What would her parents say? What would Dad say? You're setting yourself up for trouble!_

"Oh, Alfie," Polly's dreamy voice cut in. "I like you."

And so all my mental protestations held little sway.

)

(

)

Away we went, Polly and I, through Treasure Island, sometimes doing multiple chapters a night. I told her it was because I wanted to finish the book in a timely manner, but it was really because I wanted to spend lots of time with her. I loved her. It was foolish but it was real.

We went places together. In fact, we went just about everywhere. With Polly sitting prettily atop my hunched back, I crawled to all sorts of nice places. We didn't have Luna Park or anything; electricity wasn't developed yet, but there were always the stars, and of course, the sea. We loved the sea.

"If it weren't so dark and cold I'd get my bathing costume and wade!" cried Polly. She wiggled her little stump and burrowed her toes into the sand.

"No wading for me!" I said. "I'd sooner have a boat."

"I came to America on a giant one!" Polly spread her arm for emphasis. "A great large one called the Persephone. I have to ride boats all the time. I'll have to ride one again soon."

And all at once the tableau of a starry sky over the sea became lonely, cold, desolate. It struck me to the heart. I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't remembered that Polly and her family were a touring group, and that they would eventually leave Coney Island. I looked at the black waves of the Atlantic, stretched before me, and my heart was chilled to think that this vast expanse would soon separate me from Polly. And this was in my day, when telephones didn't exist, and you had to pay through your nose to send a brief message by way of trans-atlantic international telegram. Or you could wait weeks to get a letter somewhere. Either method was insufficient. How could we capture seaside moments like like this in a letter?

Polly seemed to feel my grief, too, for she stopped speaking, a child-like unhappiness darkening her countenance.

"I don't want to leave, Alfie," she said. "I like Coney Island. And I like you most of all. Nobody reads books like you do. And, and, and you don't talk to me like I'm an imbecile."

I couldn't help drawing close to her as she spoke, and then, for the first time in our relationship, I brought her to my neck and hugged her. She had this flowery powdery smell. It made me love her even more.

"I don't want you to go either," I told her, wishing I could delay her departure through the sheer virtue of desire. "You'll come back to Coney eventually, won't you?"

"I s'pose," she replied uncertainly. "But, but, but Alfie, I really don't want to leave at all. Maybe, if our parents meet each other, and, and they talk, and we tell them why..."

Polly's idea was sincere but completely naive. I looked into her watery eyes and tried to think of a way to put it to her that wouldn't be too hurtful. I saw my father's surprised face, declaring me unreasonable for going about secretly with a girl. I saw Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau's faces, their eyebrows raised and their sensibilities shocked at the notion of their daughter wanting anything to do with a hunchback freak.

"We, we love each other by now, don't we, Alfie?" Polly's little voice intruded desperately upon my turmoil. "In an _agape_ way?"

That confused me. "Eh?"

"In Greek there are three different ways to say love," explained Polly, holding up three fingers. "The first way is _eros, _and that means a love where you..where you..." Her eyes scrunched, and she whispered, "Where you want to _have sex a lot." _

I didn't laugh, for that would have hurt her feelings very much, but her innocent sweetness was so precious. (Deep, deep in the secret places in my heart, I fit the _eros _description pretty well) And then all at once my head began to hurt.

"The next one," she continued, "Is _filio_, and that means you're someone's friend. But _agape_ is a very, very big love!" She raised her arm and little stump like she was trying to hug a giant ball. "It's the biggest. It means that you love the other person more than anything, no matter what!"

She remained in that big hugging pose for a bit, and then went back on her heels again, looking at me pleadingly. "You understand, Alfie?"

"I do," I replied. My head was beginning to swim. "That's..." It got worse. Now I was feeling icy and weak, and all at once I felt disattached from reality.

"That's what, Alfie?"

Panicking, I grabbed her sleeve and tried to tell her that I was about to have a fit, but I couldn't form the words. My vision twisted and blurred, and then everything went black.

I had no sense of time passing, or even a sensation of darkness or falling, but eventually I felt sand against my cheek and heard whimpering. I stretched and clumsily touched my face. The world came back into focus. I heard the waves, smelled the sea, saw the stars, and when I pulled myself up I saw Polly weeping a distance away. I remembered where I was and what had happened, and I hastened to explain, ashamed of myself. I must have frightened the dickens out of her.

"Polly!" I cried, frightened by the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "Don't cry. I'm alright."

Her poor face was pink and her lips trembled. "Why did you do that, Alfie? Don't do it again!"

I was so humiliated that I wanted to throw myself into the nearby sea, but I gently explained my unfortunate condition to Polly.

"It's my brain," I told her, wiping her eyes. "Sometimes it loses control of itself. It's like I turn into a complete imbecile for a short while, only I can't control anything I do, and I can't hear or see. I only get a brief warning before it hits me. I tried to tell you, but it was too late."

Polly was mystified. "Your brain hurts you?"

I nodded miserably, feeling like a useless invalid. "In a way. I'm very sorry, Polly. I must have really scared you."

"You did scare me," admitted Polly, but she drew close to me again. "Do you feel better now, Alfie?"

"Yes." I actually felt the strange after-shocks of the fit, but I didn't admit it. "I feel awful about all this. I ought to have warned you, or something, but I didn't know what you'd think of me."

"You, you going to get sick again soon?"

I can never tell," I said sadly. "I only get a quick warning."

"Poor Alfie," she murmured sadly, bringing her arm around my shoulder. "But, but. but Alfie, I still have a big love for you, even if your brain hurts you sometimes." She drew back and looked into my eyes, a shy, genuine look illuminating her face. "It's the _agape_ kind. Do, do you love me too?"

I was touched, thrilled, almost to bursting, but I was also terrified. If she loved me, where would we go from here? Why, we'd practically have to marry! And if Polly married me, her career would be over. She'd live in a freakshow for the rest of her life, her former world of money and prestige gone. She'd be Apollonia Fleck, the wife of a hunchbacked, seizure-ridden freak.

She seemed to read my thoughts.

"I mean it, Alfie. I'm not lying. It isn't your fault your brain hurts you, or you look like a bear. You're nice to me, and I love you. Do you love me?"

There was the most marvelous moment where the world around us fell away, and all there was were the stars, the beating of our hearts, and the soft glow of love in Polly's eyes. The seduction was complete. I was disarmed.

"Yes, Polly," It was the truest thing I ever said. "I love you."

"Oh, Alfie!" she breathed exultantly, and, grabbing me, she laid her lips upon mine. Oh, the joy that flooded my soul. I grabbed her back, and we let our first kiss linger for some time. Then Polly put her head down on my shoulder. "I want to stay with you for_ever."_

The obvious difficulties ahead did not enter my mind just yet. I did not think of how shocked both of our respective parents would be, neither of whom knew about our clandestine nighttime meetings, nor the class divide between Polly and I, nor the religious differences, nor anything of that matter. All I knew was that I loved this precious woman desperately, and would do anything for her.

)

(

)

With a week left before Polly was to leave Coney, we had no time to lose. She promised to tell her parents, and I promised to tell Dad. To this very day, I still remember the expression on the man's wrinky face of tattoos as I unfolded my rather incredible (and edited) story. We were having tea at our big old table when I told him.

_"Al-fred Fleck!"_ the astonished old man exclaimed. "If this is a joke, I can _assure _you that it is not the faintest bit funny."

Miserable squiggles went up my back. "It's not a joke, sir."

He stared at me as though I had come from another planet. "Alfred, I..." He shook his head, as if he could invalidate everything I'd said by sheer will. "This is impossible. You can't...have been _really_ going about with that aerialist girl for three weeks? And her parents! Certainly they'd have an idea of it by now. Alfred, I..."

I said nothing.

"I have never known you to be unreasonable like this before," Dad marveled. "Why, this is completely unlike you."

It was hard to explain the nighttime dreams of love when the sterile light of day was streaming through the windows. "I love her, Dad," I said simply, unable to conjure up anything more eloquent.

Dad's face softened, but he sighed as he reached across the table and grabbed one of my hands.

"Son," he said. "I feel terrible."

"Why?"

"Because of your situation." His eyes became like two sad pools of green in his weathered old face. "Being a freak is a difficult life for a man. Unless you're lucky, you're alone. You latch on to any scrap of love you can get from anybody..."

I was about to say something when suddenly there was a succession of raps upon our door. I had a sinking feeling who it was, and when Dad opened the door my fears were confirmed. Standing imperiously upon our threshold were Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau, their eyes cold as ice and their posture erect, ready to go on the warpath.

"Are you Mr. Fleck?" Apollo demanded of Dad, and when the man's head nervously bobbed, he went on, "That's your son Alfred over there?"

I caught his steely glare and swallowed. He looked like Polly, but with none of her warmth. I was dead.

"Y-Yes," stammered Dad, weakly inviting them to sit down. "I've just..."

"Listen here, you!" seethed Apollo, marching over and towering over me. "My daughter's just told me you've been seeing her-at night-for three weeks, and now she's babbling all sorts of nonsense about marriage, how she'll killl herself if we take her back to Greece. I have never seen her like this in my life. What have you been doing to her, you scoundrel? Don't dare tell me nothing!"

"Reading!" I cried truthfully. "I was reading in a restaurant one night, and she came in and sat next to me to listen. Every night since then has been the same! I...I think she's wonderful! I'd never take advantage of her!"

Apollo shook his head, a sardonic tone entering his voice. "A man doesn't secretly take a silly girl out to read her storybooks! Don't look at me like an injured saint. Surely you know that my poor Polly is far from intelligent, easily fooled, easily led into all sorts of..."

"I'm telling you that I've been nothing but decent with her!" I declared. "I didn't think she would grow fond of me. I only thought I'd read to her a few times, and then she'd leave, and no harm done!"

"Read to her a few times!" chuckled Apollo savagely. "So that's what they're calling it now!"

Poor Dad was nearly faint with mortification at this insinuation, and frankly, so was I.

Swallowing my fury, I said, as calmly as I could, "I love your daughter very much, and I respect her, too! I know now that I shouldn't have let this secrecy go on, and I do apologize very sincerely, but if you are intent on getting me to admit that I behaved unchaste towards her, you'll leave here disappointed, because I did _no such thing." _

The man and his wife looked at each other, and then at me, their countenances no less furious.

"Furthermore," I went on, my courage rising, "I don't Polly is unintelligent at all. She may not be able to read, but she is kind, and unselfish, and loving, completely unlike any other woman I've seen. If that is stupidity, then I hope she never gets any smarter. You have a very wonderful daughter. I'd be so pleased to get to love her. I'm a sick, crippled man, to be sure, with only a modest income, but you're not going to find anyone else who's going to love and respect her more."

"Noble sentiments," said Frances, her voice just like Polly's but without the sweetness. "But thus far your behavior has shown little in the way of respect. Did it ever occur to you that all this secrecy is poor manners?"

"Yes," I admitted. "And I apologize. I'm trustworthy, I promise! I can...prove it you."

For a long, terrible moment, it seemed as though they would refuse, but then Apollo nodded slowly. "You want to prove it? Fine. But you will agree to my conditions."

I nodded hurriedly. I'd do what it took! For Polly!

"Condition One! You must be of the same religion as Polly, a Greek Orthodox, and as I'm certain you're not, I expect you to convert and have the appropriate paperwork documented."

I nodded again. Okay, that wasn't too hard.

"Condition Two! Because you are so obviously devoted to Polly, I will expect you to provide her with a wedding band, her wardrobe, and a substantial portion of money to be used on the wedding."

I nodded for a third time, wondering how I was supposed to afford that.

"Condition Three! I am taking Polly back to Greece. We will return this time next year. Provided my daughter has not changed her mind and you have fufilled the first two conditions, I will allow you to be engaged."

I accepted the conditions, although the thought of not seeing Polly for a year made me sad.

"What is your mailing address?" I asked wearily, knowing that at least writing letters would be okay.

Apollo's voice was unrelenting as he unfolded the cruellest condition of all. "Condition Four: You don't talk to her until then."

)

(

)

So you see, the odds were stacked cruelly against me. Change my religion, procure an extravagant amount of money, and yet all that hinged on whether or not Polly remained true. And we couldn't even communicate with other for a whole year! I knew, dollars to doughnuts, that her parents would try to influence her and get her interested in other young Greek men.

The day Polly left for Greece was among the most painful events in my life. There we were, my one-armed angel and I, on the docks, watching the Papakonstantinau's managers take their luggage aboard the Persephone. All around us, life went on, oblivious to our grief.

Polly never looked so dear as she did in that moment, dressed rather appropriately in blue, a little sailor hat atop her hair. Her one arm held her little suitcase.

"I'm going to miss you all the time, Alfie," she quavered, trying to be brave. "I hope you know that, that, that...I'll always love you, and, and I won't forget you."

I could've wept like a little boy. But instead, I promised her, "And I won't forget you. Even if you were to never come back-" That made my eyes tear up-"I still wouldn't forget you, Polly. I love you."

A servant lady quietly interrupted us. "Miss Polly's parents are wondering where she is," she said briskly, but she seemed to really regret her task. "I've got to take her aboard now."

Polly and I looked at each other in despair. This was it. The beginning of a whole year of separation.

"Goodbye, Alfie," she said. She knelt down to my level to embrace me, and we shared an unabashedly passionate kiss that left the servant lady embarassed and me breathless.

"Goodbye, Polly," was all I could manage to say.

And away she went with the maid, looking back at me every few steps. She kept looking at me even once she was on board, and when they put out to sea. We kept looking at each other, oblivious to the confetti and fanfare, until we could not discern the other's face. I then turned away, unable to bear the sight of Polly slowly fading away, and faced a year of incredible challenges.

"Al," my Dad said quietly at dinner. "You know we'll have to tell the others about this."

He was talking about our fellow freaks, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything when Polly was gone.

"Yes," I replied, pushing my food in meaningless circles, not the faintest bit hungry. That's what life was. A big, meaningless circle.

There was silence in our little home, a sad, desolate silence that lasted for the rest of the meal. It felt as though someone had died. There was that same oppressive feeling of loss, a mental gloom that insisted upon draining away all vestiges of light, perpetually reminding you of what was lost, never allowing you to move on.

"Al," Dad eventually said. "This whole thing is unlike any situation I've ever heard of, but...I've always wanted you to be as happy as earthly possible. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, well, even if this Apollo fellow wants to try and knock you down with his little game, I want to help you win."

He looked seriously at me, and I knew he was making a promise.

"I'll see to it that everyone helps," he continued. "I'll do what I can. To see you married to this dear young lady would be the hallmark of my life. To think that you, my youngest and sickest son, who has already had the cards stacked against him, should have an opportunity like this. Let's make the most of it, Al my boy!"

I crawled over to Dad and hugged him, eyes full of tears and my resolve strengthened. I had an ally.

I suppose I'll write on this later. Ariel is insisting I go to bed.

_**(Mr. Squelch's entry stops here.) **_

Mr. Whittington chuckled at Miss Fleck's sudden intrusion into the tale, and saw that the entry was complete. He also saw, glancing up at his clock, that she needed to be escorted back home.

"My Daddy really was a hopeless romantic, wasn't he?" she said on the way back. "And I actually do remember insisting that he go to bed. Ha, ha!"

"I could practically hear your voice saying it," replied Mr. Whittington, still amused. "How is Mr. De Rossi?"

"Oh, he's just lovely." Miss Fleck fluffed her hair and pulled down her cloche, examining herself in a shop window. "I can't tell you how thrilled he was to see me so well-dressed and good-looking. Last time we saw each other, I looked like a trainwreck. Now he says I look like..." Her cheeks pinked-"Lillian Gish."

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS: **

**1. IMPORTANT: From November 17th-December 1st, "City Of Wonders" is going on a Thanksgiving Break so that I can finish the last chapter of "Freaks Never Die" and get caught up. My church activites are starting to get hectic. Updates will resume again on December 1st.**

**2. I'll probably also have to take a Christmas break, too, LOL! **

**3. At my deviant art, (littlelivewire) I have put up a new picture. It's Ariel with her beloved roses. Sometime soon I hope to put up a Squelch picture. **

**4. Thank you for reading "City of Wonders". **

V


	10. Illusions

_**ATTENTION: From November 17th to December 1st, "City of Wonders" is going on Thanksgiving Break, to give me time to finish the long put-off last chapter of "Freaks Never Die". I have no time otherwise, and it really needs to be done. Updates will resume again on December 1st. **_

_**ALSO! This chapter is pretty long. Longest yet, probably. It almost (ALMOST, mind you) kicked my ass and took twice as long to write. We're entering the "heavy psychological phase" of this story. Have fun, little psychologists. :)**_

Chapter Ten

Illusions

"Ah!" exclaimed Gangle the next time Mr. Whittington and Rodger saw him. "I cannot tell you how healthy Ariel looks. So pink and happy, and when she puts her head down you can see a cute little double-chin. She has not looked like that in years. Just like Lillian Gish. I was so happy I cried."

The Lillian Gish reference made Rodger laugh. "Haven't seen her lately, myself," he admitted pleasantly. "But if she's lookin' anything like Gish, I'll have to make a visit. Jay here is a stand-up guy."

"Er, what means _stand-up guy?"_ asked Gangle, never having been any good at English idioms.

"A nice guy."

"Ah. I see. True, true. Now update me, please, and I will tell you more."

They did, and so he began.

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

Alf decided to take the week off, at Mr. Y and Dr. Lawrence's urging, and so the Trio became a Duo that week. It felt strange without him, like breaking the third leg from a three-legged stool. Accordingly, our operations were awkward and clunky and filled with voids, but we never breathed a hint of it to Alf, fearing that he would be grieved and insist on returning early. Every time Ariel and me popped in to visit him, we were nothing but freakish grins and giggles. Everything was just _swell,_ and _dandy,_ and _peachy, _and whatever other adjectives Ariel pulled from her feathered hat, and apart from the frequent intrusions of Mrs. Beardsley and her food and other concerned friends, Alf was content to lie quiet and do "Alf-things".

Which was all very well, and actually a good thing, for an incident in the Ayrie later that week would have sent him on the next train to Seizure-ville.

When Ariel and me entered the Ayrie, ready to begin another day of Phantasma, Mr. Y was leaning against the piano, uncorking a bottle of wine, nearly beside himself with joy. He tossed aside the cork and sent a stream of wine swirling into a glass, and then he took a long, luxurious drink that nearly drained it. Ariel and I watched him in disbelief. We had never seen him like this before in our whole lives.

Suddenly his bleary eyes were upon us. When he turned, we realized that he was not wearing his mask, which was bizarre for him, and the sunken, rotted-looking deformity was exposed.

"Fleck n' Gangle!" he crowed, staggering over like a monster. "G' morning! Having a good day? Here, have a little wine!"

Before either of us could protest, Mr. Y furnished us with two glasses of wine and guided us over to a couch, where we sat and obediently sipped, afraid to disobey. This was completely unlike him! Was he mad?

"What's the merry occasion, Mr. Y?" I asked cautiously. "Why all the wine?"

Mr. Y was perfectly congenial as he swept to the piano and held up a telegram. "Because, Dr. Gangle, I won! I won the bidding! Christine Daae is coming for certain! It's official!"

He swiftly produced a stack of flyers, on which was the singer's lovely visage and the date she would be performing.

"Got to make more copies of these!" he sang, his eyes glittering. "And now I can begin making preparations!"

"Wonderful, Mr. Y!" I replied as pleasantly as I could, rising and slapping him on the back, although my mind was doing acrobatics."You must be excited! This is a great honor."

Ariel finished her wine in one large gulp and set the glass down, silently, as I managed to aquire our schedules and supplies from Mr. Y. She remained seated until it was time to leave. After handshaking and enthusiastic goodbyes, she and I bowed out of the Ayrie and headed back down the dark stairs, feeling a bit numb. Hopefully Mr. Y would be calmer when we returned. If Alf had been with us, he'd already have started a frantic discussion on the wickedness of liquor and Mr. Y's shocking unreasonableness.

At my side, Ariel looked ready to spit nails. No sooner did I gently suggest that we keep Mr. Y's little wine-tasting to ourselves, than she burst forth indignantly:

"Well! Of all the performances! And for what, mind you? I'll bet that woman wasn't half as excited to accept as he was celebrating her acceptance!" She turned to me, and then all around, as though wanting to declare it to the world. "Well, I don't care!"

I started to say something.

"I really don't care!" she interrupted. "Why should I care? I've got _real _issues to care about, and this isn't one of them! Rotten wine! Rotten world!"

But jealousy burned in her eyes the entire rest of the walk down. If it were possible for the feathers on her dress to fluff up in rage, it would have happened, and I would have been presented with a female version of Charles the peacock.

I tried to change the subject. "How is your Dad feeling this morning?"

She didn't seem to hear. "It isn't as though she's ever done anything for him!" she started up again. "For the past ten years, it's us who have been helping Mr. Y. Even if she is pretty and talented, and they knew each other once...there are other people who could be just as...just as..."

The base door was just ahead, but Ariel didn't go to open it. She stopped suddenly, as though lost in thought, and sat down on the bottom step. She took off her little hat and placed it at her side.

"Signorina?" I ventured, watching her face, feigning ignorance. She was not taking this blow to her ego very well. "Everything okay?"

"No," came her voice, broken and defeated. "Everything is not okay. I think I'm sick. I want to go to bed."

"Sick? You're really feeling sick? Nauseous? Just now?"

"Not nauseous," she almost whispered. "Just sick."

Looking at her face in the darkness, I felt a sudden jolt of fear. She really seemed as though she had no desire to move from that step. I knew that her secret love was starting to eat away at her. Would it be best to coax it out?

I sat down next to her. "You're upset because that lady is coming," I said. "That Christine lady. Why? I mean, what is the real reason why?"

Her lips tightened.

"Go on, Signorina, tell me the truth," I pried as gently as I could, moving her hat aside and scooting close to her. "I've proven myself trustworthy to you, have I not?"

There was a long, pained silence from Ariel that was nearly tangible in the intensity of its expression, and then she put her face in my jacket. "You can't...tell...anyone," she said in a tortured whisper, clutching my lapel as though the sky were falling.

"You have my word."

It was as though she were pronouncing her own death sentence, so frail and frightened was her voice as she quietly said, "I...love Mr. Y."

Those words were hard for me to hear, even though I had anticipated them. "So that's it," I said, and I felt her chest begin to sob. "You're in love, Signorina? There, there, don't cry. How long?"

"I'm not s-sure," she mewed. "For a w-while I guess. It's really s-stupid of me, but I can't h-help it, and it h-hurts when he looks right through me... like I'm a n-nothing!"

"I'm sure it does," I said, knowing exactly how that felt. The irony of it all. "So this is why you want to learn all about him? You want to get to know him?"

I felt her nod. "M-More than that. I want Mr. Y to look at me like h-he...like he looks at her! Whenever he looks at me I feel..." She sat up a little and felt her cheeks, which had suddenly reddened. "I don't know what I feel, but I know that it's all wrong to feel it."

"Wrong?"

She shook her head and let out a long, quavering sigh. "I'm going insane. I want Mr. Y, but at the same time I know I mustn't want him."

Now I was genuinely confused. "Why not, Signorina?"

Her eyes, framed by her wet, black-smeared eyelashes, looked earnestly up into mine. "Because Daddy needs me. Now more than ever! I can't ever get attached to somebody and leave him all alone. I just can't! It would be terrible of me. Poor Daddy is so sick and lonely." Her eyes dropped. "But I still can't shake this desire of mine. I really am going insane..."

"Wait, I don't understand you. Do you mean you don't ever want to be married? On account of your Dad?"

She seemed struck by this wording at first, and then she nodded, very seriously.

"What? But you have needs too, Signorina," I protested. "You're a healthy young lady. It isn't bad to want to love someone and have your own family. Most everybody does."

"But, but Daddy..." she began to counter-protest, but then her head went down. "Well, it isn't as though my dream is attainable anyway, so I guess I needn't worry one way or the other."

She looked as vulnerable as a sad little bird. A wave of tenderness swept over me, and in an unmeditated burst of feeling, I leaned over and kissed her, right where her hair waved across her forehead.

She was surprised, but not unpleasantly.

"W-Why did you do that, Gangle dear?" she asked.

"Because..." Did I dare to say it? No, I couldn't! "Because I like you and feel sad for you. I want to help you. Do you still want to do this investigation, Miss Sherlock?"

That brightened her up. "I do, Signor Watson. It gives me something to think about."

"Very good!" I checked my watch. It was time to get going with the day. I took up her little hat, fluffed the feather, and put it back on her head. "In that case, we need to get to our places. Later on we'll visit your Dad. As for your secret, I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you," she replied, and rose from the step. Then, suddenly, I felt her little warm lips kiss my cheek in what I determined to be a friendly follow-up, and the two of us headed out into Phantasma to begin our day.

"I'll always have Charles," she mused with a tragic sigh.

_And me_, I wanted to say.

)

(

)

Alf had a fine vacation that week, which he spent reading a battered old copy of Treasure Island and writing in a journal. I was glad to see him get a break. Under the watchful eye of Doctor Lawrence and Ariel, and with the frequent intrusion of Mrs. Beardsley and her godawful casseroles, a healthful glow was restored to the man's old tattooed face. Where the skin was not blackened by ink, a pink, dewy color bloomed forth, a sign of heartiness. He had not had a large seizure since that day at lunch, only a few small ones.

"This has all been very nice," he said cheerfully on Friday afternoon, "But I think it is reasonable to say that too much leisure is bad medicine. I've had just enough. I'll be pleased to go back to work on Monday."

This he said while lounging on the parlor couch, wrapped in a rather ugly plaid throw that clashed horribly with his face, Ariel sitting at his side like a little matron, blowing on his tea to cool it.

"Nevertheless," she said gently, "You must do everything that Doctor Lawrence says, or you shall be banished to bed, and I couldn't be held responsible for what Mrs. Beardsley would insist on feeding you."

We all laughed, although Alf's laugh had an audible note of dread. I had heard tales of what Edna Beardsley shoved down the poor tattooed invalid's throat.

"That you wouldn't," he said. "Well, Baby Fleck, that's motivation enough to keep me in obedience. Are you and Gangle going to the library Sunday?"

"Are _you,_ Daddy? Or rather, do you want to?" Ariel was careful to ask pointedly.

"No," he replied. "Doctor Lawrence would rather that I stay here. But you can fetch some books for me, and of course I trust Gangle here anywhere."

While all this discourse was going on, I was looking lazily around Fleck Manor. All the windows and doors were open, to let the place air out, and I could see into the main bedroom. I saw Alf's bed. Something about it was interesting. It had all the bedclothes on it, arranged nicely, but on one side the blankets were different. There was also a second, rather feminine-looking pillow. Near that side of the bed was a little table with a lamp, books, and what was clearly Ariel's rose-pin.

I looked over towards the other room, Ariel's bedroom. From what little I could see of the bed, there weren't any sheets on it. As a matter of fact, the place exuded a sense of neglect and disuse: the bed was bare, the vanity was more or less clean, and the curtains were folded on a desk. I blinked. Ariel and her father were sharing a room and a bed? Why would they do that?

I lifted my eyes just in time to see Ariel dab a stray drop of tea from Alf's mouth and tuck his throw more firmly about him, her lips spread in a doting smile. Alf, in turn, reclined into his pillow. The look of tenderness that passed between the Flecks seemed to convey a deeper, hithero unknown dimension of relationship.

)

(

)

Mr. Y's delight in securing the performance of Christine Daae lasted for quite a while. I don't think it ever really wore off, actually, for he immediately plunged into the details of her arrival. He didn't tell us freaks much of anything, but I saw blueprints for a glass carriage hanging on the Ayrie wall, along with a map and a sketch of a music box, on which sat a little automaton Mozart at a piano.

Madame Giry was her usual grim old self, but Meg was beginning to act a bit strange. On more than one occasion I saw her smoking, her old pep replaced by a hunted, hopeless pallor, and she no longer seemed to take much pride in her dancing. She got better and better every time I saw her, but it seemed as though she had gained the ability to stand outside herself and observe, and she did not like what she saw.

"Does Mr. Y _ever _come down from the Ayrie, Dr. Gangle?" she asked me one afternoon, a spotted bathing suit tossed over her shoulder. "I never see him."

"Not that I know of," I said honestly. "And certainly not to watch anything. He's always very busy."

She ran a desultory hand through her head of golden hair, let out a deep sigh, and commented, as if it really didn't matter, "Well, tell him that Meg and the girls are beginning rehearsals for _Bathing Beauty,_ right on schedule. Good day."

And off she went, a note of resignation in the way her steps dragged heavily. It was almost as though it hurt her to walk.

)

(

)

On Sunday, it was off to the library for Miss Sherlock and Signor Watson, but not before some intervention from Alf and Genevieve.

"You'll bring me _Vanity Fair_ and _The Old Curiosity Shop,_ won't you, Ariel?" came Alf's humble request.

And also to my Signorina came this suggestion from Genevieve: "See if they've got _The Awakening_ by Kate Chopin. Not for me, but for you. Kind of sad, but I declare I've never read a heroine who is so _real!"_

Once at the library, we quickly located the aforementioned titles, tossed them indifferently to one side of a table, and delved straight into our Mr. Y mystery research. I won't deny that Ariel's recently-confessed love for the object of our study introduced an element of bitter sadness into my investigations, but I was beginning to feel a genuine excitement. It almost felt rebellious, adventurous, analyzing every little word and gesture of Mr. Y, and comparing it with what Ariel and me were able to glean from shelves of dusty old tomes. I felt like a professor.

Ariel radiated a similar feeling of adventure, aided by a smart, exotic-looking hat topped with black plumes and a smart purple suit. She looked ready to dominate the earth.

"Alright, Gangle!" she declared. "We know enough about Christine Daae. What we're here to find is information about the Phantom of the Opera affair, and the Opera Populaire. Let's get sniffing!"

While the query "Phantom of the Opera" yielded no results, there were a great many goodly volumes about the Opera Populaire, many of which were lavishly illustrated, the supremely helpful one being _The Complete History of the Opera Populaire. _It was so large that it had to be shelved sideways rather than up. Ariel carefully pulled it from the other clinging books and received it into her arms with the air of a midwife helping with the birth of a particularly beautiful child.

"I do believe this will tell us anything we'd need to know," she breathed, casting an approving eye at the stoutness of the spine, for with Ariel, _size matters_ if you're a book. "Let's have a look."

The book was filled with wonderful illustrations. Before we even thought of consulting the index or scanning for keywords, we just spent some time being amazed by the Opera Populaire's beauty. We saw a watercolor sketch of the main staircase, a splendid walkway of gold and inlaid stones and panels of marble, illuminated bulbs of glass, painted ceilings, a stage surrounded by golden angels in varying states of adoration, a large auditorium of red velvet seats, and a gigantic chandelier of crystal. In many ways, it reminded me of the Ayrie, and it occured to me that Mr. Y had likely drawn on this place as inspiration for Phantasma.

"I wouldn't be the faintest bit surprised," said Ariel when I presented her with my theory. "After all, he had to have seen this place at least once. How marvelous!"

Then the nature of our investigation came nagging to the forefront of our minds, and we got back down to business. Off we went to the index, where the query "Phantom of the Opera" was not only there, but it had a great many page numbers where information could be found.

"Page four-hundred and two!" ordered Ariel, and once there we were presented with the printed legend:

The Phantom of the Opera: The Controversy.

_Unique to the legacy of the Opera Populaire is the controversy of the "Phantom of the Opera", a mystery that has never been satisfactorily explained, as reports are greatly varied, and to what degree they are true or apocryphal are highly debatable. It is said that the aforementioned Phantom figured prominently, if not directly, in the disaster and decline of the Opera Populaire in January 1897, but the author wishes to merely present the story as objectively as possible. _

_The first verifiable instance of the "Phantom of the Opera" being used in general conversation among the inhabitants of the Opera comes from a brief aside in a review of "The Magic Flute", written by Jacques L'Enfant in 1895:_

_ "...and after I had thus complimented the wondrous stage design, I heard _

_ a ballet dancer morbidly comment that it was all 'no thanks to the Opera _

_ Ghost.' Intrigued, I asked her what she meant, and the little lady merrily_

_ informed me that the Opera Ghost caused several mishaps during the_

_ rehearsals, going so far as to knock props over, cause backdrops to fall_

_ periliously close to Ms. Guidicelli [the leading soprano], and making the_

_ dressing room floors to flow with blood. I shook my head at the fertile_

_ imagination of children and advised bed rest." _

_Such activity of such an Opera Ghost would had happened under the management of Mssr. Lefavre, who mentioned nothing of the sort at any time, neither in writing nor in speech, although it was noted by his cousin, Emilie, that he seemed to make a point to avoid the subject altogether. _

_The Opera House came under the management of Richard Firmin and Giles Andre in the summer of 1896, the very night of the Gala in which Christine Daae would assume the role of Elissa in "Hannibal" (Carlotta Guidicelli having suddenly become indisposed), a move that would propel her into stardom. Why Mssr. Lefavre chose to leave so abruptly-going to Australia, as a matter of fact-was unknown at the time, but it soon became clear to the new managers of the Opera Populaire that the 'Opera Ghost' was more than mere legend. _

_Almost immediately after assuming their duties, the new managers were given a note from the alleged Opera Ghost, welcoming them to the Opera House and demanding a regular salary-mentioning that Mssr. Lefavre usually gave him 20,000 francs a month. Firmin and Andre dismissed the note as a joke and turned their attentions to that evening's gala. Carlotta Guidicelli was suddenly unable (though some say unwilling) to go on, and Christine Daae was hastily produced as an understudy. Her legendary first performance followed shortly after. _

_Over the next six months, the Opera Ghost became increasingly meddlesome, having developed a grudge against Ms. Guidicelli and demanding that Christine Daae take leading roles. When his will was defied, disasters occured, including the destruction of the auditorium's chandelier and the hanging of stagehand Joseph Buquet during a performance of Il Muto. After these highly publiized incidents occured, the management was obliged to take serious action._

_At a performance of "Don Juan Triumphant", an opera penned and cast (with Daae in the lead role) by the Opera Ghost himself, security was heightened: doors locked, policemen armed, and a close watch kept on the proceedings. Unbeknownst to anyone, the Opera Ghost himself arrived during the performance, quickly garotted Ubaldo Piangi (the lead tenor), and assumed his role. Daae seemed to see through the deception, and at a pivotal moment in the music she tore off his hood and mask, revealing the Opera Ghost and his horrifying deformities-an apparent rotting of the flesh on one half of the face- to the crowd. _

At this point Ariel drew in her breath sharply.

"Why...that's what Mr. Y looks like!" she gasped. "And see! The Opera Ghost was wearing a mask! Mr. Y does too!"

For a long moment we stared at each other, hearts pounding at the magnitude of our discovery, and then a thought, like a sharp dart, deflated it.

"But, but Signorina," I said, remembering the other book. "Didn't that one book we read tell us that the Opera Ghost died?"

And the enthusiasm drained out of her face, but not without a sigh of frustration. "But this describes him perfectly! Mr. Y...couldn't be _related _to him, could he?"

That seemed like a bit of a stretch to me, but Ariel would not let it go.

"And he composed a whole opera! And..." Here her eyes grew troubled-"He murdered people."

"He would have had to flee at precisely the same time I came to America. 1897."

She frowned. "Let's keep reading."

_The Opera Ghost fled the stage, taking Daae forcibly along, and vanished. The murder and deception thus uncovered, a search party of police was formed. At long last, after much prying, a secret passage was found that led into the very bowels of the Opera Populaire, where a surprisingly hospitable underground lair was discovered, ostensibly the Opera Ghost's dwelling place. Daae, already having been rescued and snuck out via way of the underground cellar systen by her fiance, the Viscount de Chagny, was not present when the mob arrived. The Opera Ghost himself had escaped as well, leaving behind only a mask, obviously dropped in haste. A further search of Paris was fruitless, although garments comparably similar to the Ghost's, along with a shoe, were found in the nearby river, and when a thorough search of the city resulted in no sighting of any such distinctive person as the Ghost, he was presumed drowned. Nothing since then has given the Parisian authorities any reason to suspect that he is possibly living yet, although no body or remains have admittedly been produced. _

Ariel jumped upon the mention of the Viscount De Chagny with excitement, but was nearly beside herself when the article admitted that the Opera Ghost's body had never been found, thus leaving open to debate even the slimmest possibly that he could still be alive and well, sitting back at Phantasma. As a matter of fact, so much of the Opera Ghost's description fit Mr. Y that I felt fairly convinced we'd solved the puzzle.

"Mr. Y," marveled Ariel. "The Phantom of the Opera. Why, Gangle, it seems that everything points to this conclusion. The mask, the deformity, the ability to compose, the time-frame...I don't see how he could be anything else."

I couldn't either.

"And yet, it's all too simple," she said, looking at the book before her in disbelief. "If two plain freaks such as ourselves could piece this together, why hasn't the media caught on? How is it that we, two casual detectives, figured it out?"

I felt the same, but I was still convinced we'd done it. "Still, it makes sense," I said. "And it would explain the bad things Mr. Y said that he did. Two murders, especially random and cold-blooded murders, are certainly something to flee from."

The words were strange on my lips. I thought of Mr. Y. I imagined him actually taking a rope and very calmly choking someone to death. I thought of his pleasant smile at Christmas. The two images were unreal side-by-side, but when I remembered his gun in the Ayrie and the crazed look in his eye at our first meeting, it slowly became plausible, and then real, and then I wondered how I never saw anything but this terrible conclusion.

Ariel seemed to feel it too. She looked from the book, then blindly in front of her, her lips parting, eyes widening, as though she beheld the two murdered corpses at her feet, saw their swollen, stinking flesh, and she rose from her chair, bringing her hands to her face as though about to faint in horror. But then the fear subsided, as swiftly as cold water extinguishes a fire. Her eyes calmed. Her lips shut firmly. She sat down.

"It seems to me," came her voice, calm and decided, "That we have made a mistake somewhere. Mr. Y cannot be the Phantom of the Opera."

I was dumbfounded. Wasn't she the one who had proposed it in the first place?

"But Signorina," I protested. "All the evidence points to this conclusion."

"It does not," she denied, shaking her head, a strange, blank look on her face. "It only seems that way."

"How?"

Her eyes darted about for a moment. "Because it does. Mr. Y would not murder people."

Based on the Mr. Y I'd seen on the way over to America, he was a man who certainly would and could murder people, but of course she did not see that. But didn't she remember the Ayrie? Didn't she remember the gun? She had to!

And all at once it became clear to me. She remembered, but was choosing to forget, for she loved the Mr. Y she had created in her mind, the benevolent, stern, brilliant creator who loved beautiful things, made beautiful things, and perhaps only committed a theft or murdered to protect someone. She would not accept the idea of a mad Mr. Y, a Mr. Y who manipulated and killed impulsively when angered, for then her romantic fantasies would be destroyed. Even if all the evidence on earth were to point to this conclusion, she would never believe it. She refused.

Her face was like a brick wall when she stated, once more, in a bizarre monotone,"We've made a mistake. We'll just...try again another time. We'll come back to the library another day, or perhaps...research somewhere else."

)

(

)

We checked out our books and left. We did not talk as we walked. I was too stunned at her willingness to shut her eyes for the sake of illusion, and she was white with determination and mingled horror that was screaming behind her eyes. I felt that if I touched her, she would scream, or laugh, and collapse in a heap, and so we walked down the street together like strangers. I looked around, trying to make sense of it all.

Just then, I met eyes with a decently-attired man who was passing by with a lady. They were brown eyes, familiar eyes, and they narrowed first in greeting, then in contemplation...my heart jumped. The two of us stopped dead in the street, looking at each other. My previous agitation over phantoms and operas vanished.

His skin was tan, his mouth had a cocksure lilt, his general countenance told of a man who was confident, used to getting his way, just like...? No, it was impossible! But there he was, staring at me just as excitedly! His eyes darted to my throat. He stepped back, giving the lady a helpless, silent glance, and then he said, falteringly, in a strong Italian accent, "What is your name?"

That voice! It was his voice!

"Gregory De Rossi!" I cried into my voice trumpet, and he stumbled back, eyes widening, into the arms of the lady, who was similarly affected.

"And I am..." he cried back, "Giovanni De Rossi! Gregory! _Gregory!" _

It was him! It was my brother! We pulled each other into a rough embrace and wept as only two long-separated Italian brothers can, making a fine spectacle of ourselves to the people on the street, who looked over wonderingly. I couldn't believe it! Ten years, and we just happened to meet each other on the street!

After the two of us managed to pull ourselves together and blow our noses, I fumbled stupidly for my voice trumpet and asked, "Giovanni! What are you doing here?"

"Vacationing," came my brother's voice, throaty and full of tears. He wiped his eyes. "Thought I'd treat Maria here...you remember Maria Pescatelli, don't you, Greg?"

Maria Pescatelli! I turned my astonished eyes from my brother to Maria just in time to see a tear ooze from one of her eyes and mingle against her lips. Maria! For a moment I could do nothing but take in the sight of her glistening eyes, the frizzy hair under her hat, the memories of the past assailing me, and then she was in my arms. I closed my eyes and breathed in her smell. The last time we'd done this, it was a hot and sultry night in Milan, and we were wearing substantially less clothing. Well, actually, none at all, unless you count undershirts.

It all came back to me, holding her like that.

"Greg," she exclaimed, and the sound of her voice thrilled me. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Me neither," I heard Giovanni say behind me.

There we were, a little family, reunited in a warm little huddle.

"We must take you out to eat, Greg," insisted Giovanni. "You must come. There is so much to talk about, about us, about you. Come, Greg, come."

"Unless this is a bad time to eat," interjected Maria in English (for we had been speaking in Italian), looking over my shoulder. "Ah, Giovanni, we are mystifying this young lady here."

She was of course referring to Ariel, whom we'd all forgotten and who was standing, astonished, the bag of books hanging limply in her hand.

"I...I've heard about you, Mr. Giovanni!" Ariel cried, making him grin widely. "Oh, isn't this grand? Together again! What a chance! Of course you must go to eat with them right away, Gregory dear! It's your family, for crying out loud! Never mind me! Land sakes! Of what account am I?"

Still, Ariel had to be escorted home. We walked and talked, dropped her off at Coney's main gate, and went tripping off to a nearby restaurant. Out came cigars, wine, and plates of veal parmesan. I completely forgot about everything except the fact that I was Gregory De Rossi, and this man was my brother, and this lady was an old flame.

"Greg!" cried Giovanni. "I knew from the note you left that they got you and cut your throat, but...how are you talking now? Where are you living?"

"Give him a chance to speak, Vanni," reproved Maria as she topped off my wine glass.

I took a sip and told him that I was working at Coney Island now, in Phantasma. I told him about Mr. Y and his inventions, how I'd met him on the ship to America, and how everything had come together, up until this point.

"Coney Island!" Giovanni cried, slapping his hand to his brow. "We were there yesterday! Not at Phan-tassa-ma, but we were planning to see it tomorrow! To think, if we had not passed each other, my brother would have been over at Coney, and we would have returned to Italy never knowing how close we were to him!"

The thought of that made my head spin.

"Who was that young lady, Greg?" asked Maria. "The one we dropped off at Coney? I don't believe you've told us yet."

"Ah, no, you haven't!" Giovanni added. "Who is she? I like her. She is very beautiful. A little too skinny, but still very beautiful. You going to marry her?"

I hated to disappoint the two eager, shining faces, but I was obliged to shake my head.

"No, no. She is the daughter of Mr. Fleck, that friend of mine. I was only taking her to the library in his place. He's not feeling well."

"What's her name?"

"Ariel."

Giovanni's accent mangled it, but he said it with affection. "Ah-ree-ella. That is very nice. Nice name for a nice lady. You should marry her, Greg."

I shrugged, smiling at the hopelessness of such a prospect. There was still much that he did not know.

"Ahhh," he said. He seemed to have remembered something. "You can't marry her because she does not know..."

Maria slapped him lightly on the arm. "Vanni!"

"No, no, Maria," I interjected. "I'll have you know that Ariel knows...ah...some of what happened to me in Italy. It does not seem to bother her."

The waitress brought more bread and wine, but once the new food was duly rationed, I caught a glimmer of "I'm-the-clever-big-brother" in Giovanni's eyes, and all at once we were young boys again, eating the leftover lasagna after our restaurant was closed.

"You must not have told much then," he said, his tone authoritative. "She looks like too much of a lady to really take it that well, unless you only told a little."

"I couldn't very well incriminate myself entirely, Giovanni."

"Ah! When did I say, Gregory, een-crimmy-nate yourself, eh? You jump to conclusions! I'm stating facts. Always, you are too hasty." He took a long sip of his wine, as if the oracle had spoken.

This was starting to get me grumpy. "Always, you are blaming me for something!"

He finished his sip with an indignant twitch of his eyes. "I have not blamed you once. I should blame you, though." He put down his glass and fixed me with a bitter stare."There is much I could blame about. You have any idea how the last ten years has been for me? Hmm?"

All at once, the initial joy of our reunion faded, and in its place came all the bitterness and pain of the past, all the unresolved conflict between Giovanni and me. It seemed my brother had been only waiting for an excuse to vent his unhappiness.

"You know how it felt to find your letter under my door?" Giovanni moralized, waving a breadstick like a pointer. "And how afraid I was of the Mafia getting me too, even if I had done nothing against them? All alone! Running out of money! You gone! Everybody afraid to see me, do business with me, because I was related to you. Bearing the brunt of your bad reputation while you play at Coney! And now you are mad when I do a little blaming? Ah, fuck you."

"Ay, ay!" cried Maria in distress, patting Giovanni's back and looking desperately at me. "Fighting already? Calm down, Vanni. No swearing!"

"You have no respect," concluded my brother, and his mouth was firm with unhappiness. "If Mama were alive, she would die to see this."

I looked down at my sauce-speckled plate, ashamed and furious. I was ashamed of causing Giovanni such trouble, but furious that even now, ten years later, he still sought to control me with the "Mama" emotional blackmail.

"Giovanni..." I choked, tears suddenly crowding into my eyes.

"You have no respect," he repeated, folding his arms, but his chin wobbled.

I rose to embrace him, pushing aside my chair and abandoning my dinner.

"No touch me," he grunted, trying to wriggle away from my hug, but a tear snuck down into his collar. "You have no respect. Ay, ay! No touch me!"

"Giovanni," I wept, for I still loved him. "I am sorry, brother. I don't have any respect. Don't you see how sorry I am?"

"No respect!" His voice was squeaky now.

"Giovanni! Brother! Forgive me. I have no respect. I have never had respect. But brother, I still love you."

He shut his eyes.

"I still love you," I insisted.

That did it. "Ahhh," Giovanni finally groaned, giving in to his sadness. "Greg! Little brother!"

"Giovanni! Big brother!" I wept, taking his wet face to my breast.

He said something that I couldn't understand, and so it was that the two of us reconciled, screaming, as only two Italian brothers can, as Maria (and the restaurant) sat awkwardly nearby. What can I say? It was an emotional moment, and when we were quite through (a few people applauding us as we sat) we exchanged contact information.

"We must see each other again very soon," said Giovanni, blowing his nose. "As often as we can, before Maria and me go back to _Roma." _

I blinked. "_Roma? _You are not in _Milano_ anymore?"

Giovanni shook his head. "How could I stay in _Milano_ with a last name like De Rossi?"

I bowed my head in shame.

"And so Maria and me, we go down to _Roma._ Nice city. We try to put a restaurant there, but that is not working so good. So I am thinking perhaps we could just come back here, to Brooklyn, where we were born. We'll see."

"You and Maria?" I asked curiously, looking over at her. "Together? You two married?"

There was an intense little moment where we all looked at each other. Maria swallowed and looked from me to Giovanni, and Giovanni gave me a significant nod.

"Well," he replied, grinning, "If we are not married, she sure has been following me around for a long time. I don't know, Greg. When you took off, we sort of gra-vee-tated to each other, like magnets."

"We thought you'd never come back," Maria quickly added, looking at me sadly, almost as though she were apologizing. "So..."

"So that is that," concluded Giovanni. He settled back in his chair and took more wine, smiling like a big Mafia boss. "Now it all works out. Maria and me, we very close friends. And you, Greg, have a close lady friend too, that pretty Ah-ree-ella. We make out very good for ourselves."

"Yes," I agreed, knowing it wasn't that simple. But it was never good to contradict Giovanni when he looked confident like that.

While he ordered us some spumoni, I watched Maria's lowered eyes. She had not changed much in ten years. Her face was still lovely; a little plumper, but that didn't take away the loveliness. I remembered how we made broken cobblestone castles as children. She seemed to still have that sensible strength in her hands, the same spirit for life, but it was choked, suppressed. Giovanni patted her back, and she did not respond. It seemed that my sudden intrusion back into her life was turning her world around, causing her to face things as they were, and not as they seemed to be. Things that seemed clear before were now illusions.

That's how I felt, at least. I still loved Maria. I thought I had forgotten. When Ariel entered the picture, it had the effect of throwing a pile of dirt on top of a treasure chest, but now...

"I will be back," announced Giovanni, apparently going to the toliet, and the two of us were alone.

"Greg," she murmured, coming over and hugging me. The buttons and ruffles on her dress poked my chest. "Greg, it has been such a long time since..."

I remembered. "It has, Maria, but yet not so long."

It was incredible how, despite the decade, everything between us seemed to resume, as though nothing had happened. Before we ultimately parted at the gates of Coney, after the meal was through, she told me, "We should come see you tomorrow, Greg. We still have much to talk about."

"Yes, yes!" seconded Giovanni. "We will come to Phan-tassa-ma tomorrow, to see you."

She kissed me goodnight very politely; just a kiss on the cheek. But her eyes said more. Long after she and Giovanni had disappeared into the Brooklyn hubbub, I stood at the gates, wondering at myself.

)

(

)

"So!" said Alf when I stopped by Fleck Manor a few minutes later. "Ariel tells me you ran into your brother in Brooklyn today! Have a seat, Ee-talian! Do tell me about it!"

Alf was still on the parlor lounge, wrapped in that atrocious throw, a bookmark in Vanity Fair. I didn't see Ariel anywhere. She must have been in her room. Or, rather, the room she and her father apparently shared. That bothered me. A lot of things about her were beginning to bother me. Maybe I'd ask her about that sometime.

Anyway, I gave the man a heavily edited narrative of my evening with Giovanni and Maria, which made it sound a bit impersonal and cool, but it touched him nevertheless. He sat, listening intently, tears in his eyes.

"It must have been terrible, being separated from them for so long," Alf said with unusually strong emotion. "It's a hard thing, being cut off from people you love, having a whole ocean between you."

"Well, it's alright now, Alf," I assured him. "We had a great time. In fact, we're going to see each other tomorrow."

But he seemed fixated on the last thing he'd said. "A very hard thing..." he murmured.

I decided I'd better brighten the atmosphere fast and looked desperately around for a conversation-starter. My eyes fell upon one of the Flecks' eight billion photographs. It was an old, faded looking picture of a little tattooed boy, seated on a stool.

"Say, Alf!" I inquired, pointing to it. "Is that you as a little boy there?"

He squinted at the picture for a moment, and then he dabbed his eyes miserably with the throw, his tattoos seeming to droop. "No. It looks like me, but no. That's my brother, John. He's been dead for forty years, but...sometimes...I still hear him...bouncing his ball around."

"Hey, Alf, what's wrong today?" I asked, slapping his back. "Feeling alright?"

"Oh, I don't know," he moaned. "Ever since I heard that Christine Daae singing, I've been feeling so unreasonably sentimental. Forgive me."

The name startled me. "Christine Daae singing? When did you hear that?"

"An hour or so ago," he replied. "That Edison cylinder arrived today, the one you ordered, I think. Ariel and I listened to it. The woman's voice is just _beautiful. _I think it's scarcely any wonder Mr. Y would want to book her for a performance."

Knowing what I knew about Mr. Y and Christine Daae, I immediately wanted to hear the cylinder. Alf said that Ariel was in the bedroom, likely listening to it or perhaps reading her book, and I could go see her. He resumed reading Vanity Fair, tears of sentiment in his eyes.

Ariel was on "her half" of the Fleck bed when I entered, her porcelain face tense as she read "The Awakening". On the bedside table, space had been cleared for the trumpeted phonograph machine, and the remnants of the cylinder packaging sat crumpled at her feet. The scene was so tell-tale and peaceful that I felt reluctant to break it, and I ultimately didn't have to; she noticed me and gave a little smile of welcome, stuffing a piece of paper into her book. The strange aloofness at the library was a thing of the past.

She wanted to know all about Giovanni and Maria, naturally, and so I told her of our dinner together, editing quite a bit just as I had done for Alf, but just like her father she became sentimental and took my big hand into her little warm one. Her throat bobbed.

"That's so wonderful," she said. "And so lucky. I'm so glad this happiness has come to you, dear."

And all at once my insides squirmed with guilt. I remembered that I loved Ariel, and just a short time ago I had been burning with rekindled lust for Maria. It felt adulterous, even though it wasn't, and I certainly owed no allegiance to someone to whom I was not engaged and who didn't see me as any more than a friend. But, to assuage my conscience, I leaned forward and gave Ariel another kiss right where the last one had been, right where the hair waved over her forehead.

In response to her pleasantly confused expression, I replied, "Because you are so sweet. Now, about this cylinder..."

"Ohhh, yes," she said, turning to the phonograph machine. "Yes. I'll let you hear it." But before she turned it on, she looked at me, her eyes full of sad seriousness. "The woman's voice," she assured me, as though diagnosing me with tuberculosis, "Is gorgeous."

A few seconds of ghostly scratching sounds, and then a man's voice declared, "Think of Me, from Hannibal, sung by Christine Daae. Edison Records."

And then, after a brief orchestral introduction, a voice as hard as lightening and soft as candlelight issued forth from the trumpet, with an arresting sense of timelessness:

_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in a while _

_Please promise me you'll try. _

_When you find, that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me. _

More orchestra, and it was during this interlude that I turned to look at Ariel, who had just turned to look at me.

I was so impressed that I forgot to speak English. "Perfetto!" I whispered, feeling as though I couldn't even break the music with my voice.

She nodded soberly, almost ashamedly, and looked at her pale, clenched hands as Daae's voice sang out again:

_We never said, our love was evergreen_

_Or as unchanging as the sea_

_But if you can still remember_

_Stop and think of me_

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_

_Don't think about the way things might have been_

_Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned_

_Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind_

_Recall those days, look back on all those times_

_Think of the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you! _

More orchestra, only this time we didn't talk, and Ariel had no comments to make.

At last the song reached its end, but not before Daae reprised the general theme with a thrilling sequence of vocal acrobatics that reminded me of Ariel on her hoop, and whose purpose seemed to be a confident, deliberate reiteration of her talent. Fearless, fanciful, carefully-controlled grace, and then the final crash of the orchestra. Then there was a few scratches, then silence.

"Wow!" I breathed with true enthusiasm, but the effect it had on my Signorina made me refrain from any further praise.

Ariel removed the cylinder and put it back in its case with the defeated air of a woman who has been put firmly in her place by her superior.

"It _was_ excellent, wasn't it?" she mumbled. "Almost like a dream. Scarcely any wonder why Mr. Y fancies her. What in the world could Ariel Fleck be compared to Christine Daae? Put a fork in me, Gangle, for I am thoroughly and entirely done."

"Done? With all of this, Signorina? The research?"

There was a long pause, at the end of which I expected an affirmative, but she shook her head in resignation.

"No. Not done with the research. It's a doneness of the spirit, like the shutting of a door, but as for the research..." She looked out the window, and the moonlight cast tired shadows under her eyes..."I feel bound to keep on. I'd like to say it's because I never leave a thing undone, but I respect you too much to lie. It feels to me as though this mystery is the only realm in which Mr. Y and I can ever be close to each other. Even if I never do solve it...it is like one of those Shakespeare plays in which everyone dies, but it is so long that you forget there will ever be an end...but the end can't ever be happy, can it?"

She was completely ignoring the fact that we basically had solved the mystery, so perfectly that her voice was not even slightly affected. In that moment she was like a thin, white beech sapling, the weight of her own denial like a sudden profusion of fruit at the crown, bending her frame dangerously close to snapping. Even for Poe-loving Ariel Fleck, this kind of talk was chillingly morbid. I had to snap her out of it.

"Come, Signorina, you need to come out of this room, get some fresh air. You are looking ill. Come, come, you've had enough books and music, and certainly enough thinking. Come with me."

She cast a desultory glance about the little room and rose, as if I were compelling her, and followed me out into the main parlor.

Alf had abandoned _Vanity Fair_ and was on the last few pages of _The Old Curiosity Shop_, judging by the way it was overturned in his lap. His decorated head was slumped on the chair arm, where he was having a good, theraputic cry.

"Little Nell..." he wept in explanation, though his head did not rise, "I'm at the part where...Little Nell...dies."

"Oh, _no,_ Daddy!" cried Ariel. "Daddy, you are making yourself perfectly miserable with these books, and Doctor Lawrence says that you must not have any great shocks to your system! Oh, Daddy, _do stop!" _

He sniffed wetly, as though he were a great sponge absorbing a puddle, and presently stopped in obedience to Ariel's pleas. She knelt for a few moments at his side, ministering to him in a decidedly matronly way, murmuring and kissing until he seemed quite soothed, and put a pillow beneath his head while slyly taking away the books.

"There," she said gently. "Now, Daddy, Gangle and I are going to sit outside in the fresh air for a bit. Lie quietly, or I'll have to fetch the Doctor, and then Mrs. Beardsley will surely find out."

Thus left to rest his troubled mind, the two of us left Alf and departed into the cool haze of stars to work out the conflicts within our own. We sat down upon the bench. The Ayrie's great eye-shaped windows were all aglow, indictating that Mr. Y would be spending yet another sleepless night composing and planning.

"I'm sorry," said Ariel. "For being so depressing."

"Ahh, don't apologize, Signorina. It is a hard thing, loving someone." That was putting it mildly, considering the mental acrobatics she was employing to dodge the Opera Ghost conclusion. "Love can be very painful, make you do funny things. Can I help you, somehow?"

I knew very well that there was nothing I could do, but it felt like a nice thing to say.

"In relation to myself and Mr. Y, no. There isn't anything you can do, unless you're in with Cupid," she replied. "But...Gangle? There is something I've been considering doing. Something for our investigation. It's a little bizarre, but I suppose there's nothing for it. I've thought about it all evening."

Oh boy.

"What?"

"The New York Times." She sat up very straight, as though she must deliver a sales pitch. "You can take out advertisements in it, for a little money, and I've been thinking...they can't exactly verify who you are. The person taking out the ad, I mean. So, if I were to assume an alias, say I was an author looking for information on the Phantom of the Opera, offer a little money...perhaps I could find something yet?"

"An alias?" I was convinced that she was becoming unreasonable. "But, Signorina, you would certainly have to give some sort of address, or means of communication, and you'd incriminate yourself. It could be traced."

"I could state in the ad that the respondant must respond by way of another advertisement in the personal section," Ariel shot back, having apparently giving this matter great thought between morbid sniffles. "I have seen such things done."

I saw her angle and felt sad. Not only was she in denial, she was bent on researching and researching until some source, anywhere, told her what she wanted to hear and validated her unmovable conclusion of Mr. Y's harmlessness. Perceiving that she was serious, all I could do was offer advice and caution. I couldn't let her get into trouble. "If you are really set on it, Signorina, I suppose I can't stop you, but it seems unsafe, and I do want to help you."

"Do you?"

"Of course."

She drew in a deep, nervous breath that whitened her lips. It seemed that she was about to try my willingness to help most severely.

"Well, Gangle, my darling friend," she began, grabbing my hands. "I was thinking that you would be so kind as to take out the advertisement in your name."

_"My name?"_ I gasped.

"Er, an alias of your choosing, I mean," she quickly amended, blushing. "Not your name. Certainly not."

"But you said you were going to do it."

"Never mind that. Don't you see I _can't?_ You know as well as I do that ladies are never taken seriously as authors, not in the slightest, and offering a man information for a book has so much more potential for prestige. To do so for womens' writing is practically renegade! And don't dare try to use Jane Austen as a counter-example, for I'll have you know she published _Pride and Prejudice _anonymously after writing it in secret!"

I heard a hint (well, more of a splash) of Genevieve Pennysworth in her logic that made me hesitant to refuse, lest she'd inherited some of her vitriol as well. But I still had my protestations.

"But...if it should come to meeting with someone, I'd be instantly recognizable. This voice trumpet would give me right away!"

"In such a case I would go in your stead," she retorted smoothly. "As your supposed secretary. You would sit nearby (for all this would have to be conducted at a cafe or something) to make sure I was alright. I would of course be wearing a disguise. Don't look so grim, Signor Watson, we're clever freaks; between the two of us there's a fair amount of brains. An aerialist and a former gangster! Surely we're good for _something." _

Why was it that could never say no to her? Placing my beastly hand on top of her little white one, I bowed my head and promised my devotion to her hare-brained plot, a decision that I would agonize over all night.

"Oh, Gangle, I guess a lady never had a friend as wonderful as you," she breathed, putting her other hand atop mine, making an Italian hand sandwich. "I will pay for the advertisement costs, of course, and anything else you see fit to charge. Oh, _thank you." _

She kissed my cheek, and so I was at least half repaid.

"As for your alias..." she mused, finger on her lips. "You look like a _Vincent Vellazio_ to me, and as for myself, I do believe that...ah..._Prudence Puckett_ will fit the bill admirably."

Why on earth my dear, half-mad Signorina would name herself something as ironic as _Prudence_ I shall never know.

_**(Gangle stops here for now.) **_

"Hell!" swore Rodger, shaking his head in amazement. "I guess this was the point Ariel got kooky on us. I never heard of denial like that. And she and her old man shared a bed? Eeesh. That's a lot to tolerate in a girl, De Rossi!"

"It is," admitted Gangle. "But she's different now, quite a bit more rational."

Rodger nodded as though he understood, but his mouth twisted a bit skeptically. "Well, that's always a good thing."

"I'll be interested to hear her perspective on this," said Mr. Whittington, giving his notes a final once-over. "Naturally, there'll be editing before this gets printed. Thank you, Mr. De Rossi."

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS: **

**1. Well, you read about the Thanksgiving Break already. So that's that.**

**2. Thanks for reading this excruciating chapter of "City of Wonders"! **

**3. I got a Kindle for my 21st birthday. It can read this story to me. Yay! Great for proofreading. **


	11. Fleck's Awakening

**WARNING: Calling all Sigmund Freuds and psychologist wannabes! This is a doozy of a chapter (just look at the title), for Miss Fleck is starting to have certain adult-themed "feelings" for Mr. Y. I wouldn't be honest to my interpretation of her character if I were to edit it out, but rest assured that while it is candid, it is not obscene. That is not "the way I roll". Here 'tis. **

Chapter Eleven

Fleck's Awakening

Miss Fleck watched Mr. Whittington at work, deeply interested in the ways of typewriters and the various aspects of writing. Today the young writer was stationed upon his old red couch. Around him were leaves of paper. There were outlines, and crumpled notes, and strewn among this disarray were sticky mugs of coffee, paperclips, typewriter ribbon, and the remnants of a great many dainty dishes, lovingly prepared for Mr. Whittington by Miss Fleck herself.

Watching from another chair, looking thoughtful in a dress of sober gray, she cleared her throat.

It took the deeply contemplative Mr. Whittington a good thirty seconds to respond.

"Yes, Ariel?"

"You should take a break for a bit," she chuckled. "And hear some more of my story. We're getting to the juicy stuff. It's not for the faint of heart. Are you faint of heart?"

Mr. Whittington yawned. "Another cup of coffee should give me the strength I need."

She produced the coffee and stuffed a pillow under his head.

"There you go, Jay. Take a load off. No, no, don't bother to take notes. This won't make the book, trust me."

_**(Miss Fleck continues the story.)**_

After securing the help of Gangle in taking out a New York Times advertisment, it was time for bed. I went home, corralled Daddy into bed, and settled down beside him so that the two of us could pray together: for each other, for ourselves, and for Mama's immortal soul. Daddy grabbed my hands, bringing them to his heart the way he always did when praying for me. His hands were big and rough, but as gentle as a kitten's whenever they touched me, whether it was to lead me, or cross the street, or wipe my tears, or pray like this. I remember the way they used to feel, even to this day.

Our prayers thus finished, I smothered Daddy's tattooed face with kisses, and we both snuggled into our blankets. Off Daddy drifted into sleep. I lay beside him, knowing that I must sleep, but I couldn't. My thoughts were too loud. I let my eyes wander around the room, looking at the way the flame from the gas lamp cast shadows, long, distorted shadows, over the familiar patterns of the wallpaper and the many frames. I thought of the Phantom of the Opera. I thought of a dark figure lurking in the shadow of the bureau, breathing raspily, his gnarled hands twisting a terrible, blood-stained rope. My scalp crinkled. I shut my eyes.

I thought of Mr. Y rescuing me from him. Yes, he would rescue me. He had rescued me from the degraded life of a freak, rescued me from despair, and now he would rescue me from my own demented imagination, an imagination that had dared entertain the thought of himself and the Phantom as being one and the same. He rescued me once, and he would do it again. That's the sort of man he was. He was a man who built up, and glorified, and fixed broken things, not a man who killed, and degraded, and destroyed at whim. If ever he did wrong, it was to help someone, perhaps an underdog, a victim.

I did not know everything about him, or the Phantom of the Opera, but my heart would not accept the conclusion that the two men had anything in common. The Opera Ghost was the garish light of day, but Mr. Y was the cool, kind tranquility of night, both he and his music.

Mr. Y! A thrill began in my heart, and I felt like my ribcage held a wildly fluttering bird that was inflicting such terrible, beautiful, obscene pain upon my heart in its attempt to be freed. I moaned. Oh, how I loved him, and how hard it all was! If only he would look at me the way he did that awful doll. What would that be like?

My eyelids closed, dropping a warm brown curtain upon the scene before me. I mentally adorned my freakish nakedness with a golden gown. No corsets, no nothing, just the delicious, divine sensation of the cool silk wrapping itself around my bare breasts and thighs. Darkness, warm darkness, surrounding me in my little box. Then something stirs. A velvet curtain parts. Into the small, warm sanctuary comes an arm, Mr. Y's arm, the sleeve rolled up and the gloves removed to expose his bare flesh. The same loving touch applied to his piano keys gently touches me...

My heart pounded with a ferocity that could've woken Daddy, but I was too thoroughly lost in the dream, and I fantasized on.

Yes! He would touch me, very lovingly, very tenderly, for I was his heart's desire, a beautiful dream with no defect. Skin touching skin. Soul touching soul. Lips, with warm breath whispering words of love, pressing against mine. And those hands...!

I stroked my neck, and my face, and then all over myself, as though my hands had suddenly become Mr. Y's hands, healing hands that were seeking and destroying everything that was hurting me. How good it felt! How my cold, neglected flesh became warm, the nerves tingling as though I were sinking into a warm bath. I felt the softness of my chubby belly. There was nothing to fear; he loved it the way it was. He loved me the way I was. Mr. Y! And all at once my hand took a decidedly southern course to somewhere I cannot say, and I gave this unexplored part of me a tentative little feel. It sent a surprisingly nice shiver through me.

Daddy suddenly gave a deep snore.

It was as though his tattooed head had popped into the curtained chamber like a balloon, and it all fell away. My hand flew out of there so fast that I nearly punched myself in the face. Daddy slept on, but I came quickly and completely back to reality. I put my arms neatly at my side. Looking around the shadowy room again, feeling the comforting presence of Daddy at my side, I was not conscious of any guilt, but I was filled with a very innocent sort of shock_. Why, Ariel Fleck. What was all that about, dear_?

I know you won't believe me, but I actually didn't understand what that had all been about. Nowadays I do, but not then. In my day, that sort of thing wasn't discussed unless it was necessary. Heck, I remember one time when I was five, and I asked Daddy what sex was. There was a long, long silence as he examined his shoes, and then he said, a little too breezily, "Sex? Never heard of it."

I rolled over and covered myself tightly with my blanket. Well, that was quite enough of that, whatever it was. Time to go to bed! Mustn't disturb Daddy! But my dreams were filled with shadowy phantoms and blooming roses.

)

(

)

What is it about the daylight that makes our nighttime behavior seem so repulsive? I awoke the next morning, and after a weary moment of gazing around the light-filled room, noting that all the shadowy phantoms were gone and the birds were singing, I remembered what I had been fantasizing about. A chill of disgust made me cringe, and when I looked at Daddy I was even more appalled at myself.

"Good morning, Ariel," he yawned pleasantly. Unable to look at him, I stammered out my morning greeting and went immediately to dress.

Onto the dressing area's little stand went my feathered black dress, stockings, panties, and corsets. Off went my nightgown, and when the cool air went swirling around my nakedness, I felt moved, despite my mental inhibitions, to look at it in the mirror. Two bleary eyes looked back at me from the reflection, and a colorless, unpainted face, sitting atop an awkward body with a dumpy belly, a twisted leg, and round little breasts circled with blue veins. I was the antithesis of Venus, standing seductively in her clam shell as ladies rushed to cover her with silk, obviously jealous.

As for me, I needed no encouragement from any ladies to dress, but a thought, profound and wonderful, flitted across my mind. This ugly body, imperfect as it was, could make another person. I forgot my clothes for a minute and imagined that dumpy belly of mine much bigger, round and great like some fertility goddess, a tiny baby napping in my warm darkness. And then, that second body, with its unique soul, coming out of mine and loving me at once, latching its tiny lips upon my breasts and drinking. I would love the baby, everything about it, from its crumpled pink face to the tiny toenails. It would be a girl, and I would name her Vivian. Or perhaps Lucy.

I grabbed my clothing and hustled into it._ Pull yourself together, Ariel, _I told myself exasperatedly. _You're acting like a fool. You. Having babies. _

It was with a feeling akin to desperation that I got into costume, firmly lacing my dumpiness into the strict discipline of my corsets, strapping the metalwork of my brace around my leg, covering myself in feathers and darkness, and carefully painting the sallow face in the mirror. Last of all, on came the glossy wig of raven hair, and the transformation from Ariel to Queen Fleck was complete. I puckered my lips, red as a bleeding gash, and looked into the striking eyes of my reflection, the person Mr. Y invented. She was beautiful, so strange and beautiful. Like a diamond.

)

(

)

The day was shaping up to be lovely. The dining tent was illuminated with a honey-gold glow, and through the flap the sky was a clear, crystal blue. The smell of sun-warmed earth, sausage, and worn grass soothed my melancholy heart and filled it with a nameless but uplifting emotion; when I saw the faces of my freak family around the breakfast table looking towards my returning Daddy with happiness, it multiplied tenfold, as if to remind me that no pain is insurmountable when there are people who love you. Gangle seemed to feel it too, for I felt his hand touch my back.

"It's so nice to have you back among us once again, Alfred dear," cooed Mrs. Beardsley when the Three of us arrived at breakfast, a Trio once more, and there were smiles and a polite spattering of applause that made Daddy blush.

"Prayed for ya, Ah did," Aggie added as we sat down. "Ann did too."

"Can't imagine the joint without you, Alf," wheezed Mr. Geddes atop his booster seat of newspapers.

Even the Pennysworths siblings nodded politely, any past grudges temporarily forgiven in the happiness of the moment. Sickness and life have a funny way of uniting people through little more than their common humanity.

"It's nice to be back," Daddy replied politely to his fellow freaks. "You've all been so kind over the past week, bringing over food and helping Ariel with her work, and we're both very much obliged. Thank you."

Mrs. Beardsley's care-worn, misty eyes made me forgive her at once for her constant meddling and interminable casseroles.

"Yes, thank you indeed," I echoed.

Today the platters were piled high with steaming links of sausage, fluffy curds of eggs, English muffins, and elderberry jam in little pots that resembled lotus buds, and it was from this friendly arrangement that I filled Daddy's plate, and then mine.

"Mmm," said Gangle, pointing to the jam approvingly. "Mmm. That I like. That is good jam. The fool cooks have finally done something right."

"Done something right?" I cried in mock surprise. "So I take it we won't get the table flipped over today, Signor?"

_"Si, si! _Not today, Signorina! I will wait until Giovanni and Maria taste what they call marinara sauce, then we will all take turns flipping the table over." But before we could even laugh at that, a look of concern crept into his face, and he dropped his tone. "You feeling better since last night?"

The shadowy night, with its phantoms and fantasies, intruded sharply upon the homey breakfast table atmosphere like a raven descending upon a daisy. I blushed. As if in remembrance, I felt an echo of those strange, pleasurable new feelings in my body, but with Gangle right in front of me they were mortifying.

"Ah," he said quickly, possibly sensing my embarrassment. "Not trying to say that there was anything wrong with you, but you just weren't acting like you usually do..."

"You're right," I replied, determined to conquer myself. "I was feeling a bit...odd, wasn't I? Well, don't worry. I'm fine. I guess I was just caught up in stress over...Mr. Y, and...everything."

He brought his comforting hand around to pat my back, a thoroughly masculine but tender expression of care that both soothed me and made my heart flutter. I felt myself becoming silly.

"I'm fine," I assured him again, but after I took a sip of tea I heard myself continue, distantly, "You know how it gets at night."

He blinked in what appeared to be confusion, then in comprehension, his friendly face growing faintly pink with a sort of sympathy, or compassion, or perhaps at least a deliberately unfazed facade to mask his surprise. My blood went cold as I looked helplessly at him, shocked at what I had just blurted. What had I just said? My face burned. The dishes clinked as I clumsily leapt to my feet, knocking the table, and with a hasty "I'm-going-walking" excuse, I managed to dash out of there before anyone had the presence of mind to call after me. I went whooshing through the tent flap into the vacant streets of Phantasma.

Once safely ensconced between two concession stands, I leaned against one and let out a strangled moan of humiliation. I hadn't the strength to cry, and judging by that little breakfast performance, I hadn't the strength to control myself either. Oh, what must Gangle be thinking of me? They must be asking him why I ran off, and he would be telling them-and Daddy-what I had said! Moaning ever more miserably, I stamped my feet and shook my skirt of feathers, wanting nothing more than for the ground beneath me to consume me in my shame.

I couldn't possibly return to breakfast, so I decided to go to the Ayrie early. Twenty minutes early. I wondered if Mr. Y would mind.

)

(

)

Round and round those dark stairs I ascended alone, slowly, for far above me I heard the echoing strains of my Master at his piano. It was that untitled melody that Christine Daae was going to sing. The mere suggestion of its melody would have tormented me if it weren't being played by Mr. Y himself; as it was, it brought an exquisite, painful thrill to my heartbroken soul. I kept climbing mindlessly, led by the music in a sort of trance, and it was not until the sudden vision of the Ayrie door that I stopped, stricken, wondering what I was supposed to say, how I was to answer for being twenty minutes early. I supposed I would not say anything. The music played on, and I sat. I would sit down in the darkness until it was time to go in.

But the music abruptly ceased.

"Who is there?" called Mr. Y.

I hadn't any choice. Straightening up, I nervously called back, "Miss Fleck, sir."

There was a sound like the rustling of rubbish, and a creak from his piano stool. He was likely turning to examine the clock.

"It is 8:33, Miss Fleck," he called again slowly, a sound of wariness in his tone. "The other two aren't with you, are they?"

A miserable coldness clutched my heart. "No, sir."

"Is something the matter?"

Everything was the matter. "No, sir."

There was a long, awkward silence, both inside the Ayrie and without, and then Mr. Y broke it with a cautious, "Please come in."

He was reclining on his piano bench, wearing an Oriental-style robe and reaching for a steaming mug of coffee, which he sipped as I entered. There was a plate of half-eaten bacon and muffins on top of the piano. I was clearly interrupting his last couple minutes of morning music, food, and tranquility with my stupid presence. I wanted to die.

He swallowed his coffee and looked at me in amused confusion. "Well, this is unlike you, Miss Fleck. I confess myself surprised. Are you quite certain that nothing is the matter?"

I looked at the floor and let out a lie. "I just finished early, and I...had nothing...else to do."

"I see." He sipped some more coffee and cleared his throat. "How's your father?"

"He's feeling very well, thank you. He's pleased to return to work today."

"I'm glad." Mr. Y put his mug on the piano and turned to his music. "I'm actually quite pleased you're here, Miss Fleck. I've just about finished composing Miss Daae's aria, but I'd like to run it by a female voice, hear what it sounds like, and I know you can hit the B flat. You wouldn't mind doing a little singing, would you?"

And suddenly I remembered the music of the night. I remembered kneeling in the darkness outside the dance hall, letting wave after wave of music shudder through me. Mr Y's music seemed to reside on a higher plane of reality, unreachable by mortal hands, and now he wanted me, Miss Fleck, to help give it a voice? My rapture equalled my fear. I barely felt worthy to hold the sheets of music in my hands, let alone sing them, but the notion of Mr. Y's piano and my voice melding together into music filled me with a thousand thrills never felt before.

I agreed, and I received the hand-written sheet music into my trembling hands. "Love Never Dies", it said at the top of the first page.

"I shall play it through once," said Mr. Y, "And don't sing. Just follow along with the sheet music to see how the notes and lyrics go together."

His fingers gently stroked the keys, and the piano issued forth one of the loveliest songs I ever heard. Standing close by the piano, I could feel the music rushing up my arm and into my heart. He may as well have been playing on my heartstrings. I followed along, as instructed, and these were the lyrics:

_Who knows when love begins?_

_Who knows what makes it start? _

_One day it's simply there, alive inside your heart. _

_It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul._

_It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control. _

_Try to deny it, and try to protest._

_But love won't let you go,_

_Once you've been possessed..._

_Love never dies, love never falters._

_Once it has spoken, love is yours._

_Love never fades, love never alters._

_Hearts may get broken, love endures._

_Hearts may get broken, love endures. _

Love never dies. Oh! The music and lyrics were even more beautiful when I got to hear the composer himself play it, and see the words written in his elegant handwriting. As the last note faded into silence, I was breathless. I stood in awe of this man, from whose imagination came music as beautiful as this, and in the warm rays of light streaming through the Ayrie windows Mr. Y seemed to become an angel of music, clothed in glory. He turned to me and smiled, as though he knew it.

"Think you can do that?" he asked.

My heart still humming with melody, I nodded.

Once more the piano began, but now I too became a part of it, and I sang, the pounding of my heart making my voice tremble. At first I was horrified, lest I somehow mar the beauty of the piece, but my fear melted as I began to hear how my voice, frail though it was, harmonized and blended with Mr. Y's skilled accompaniment until it seemed that the two had become one. Our separate parts united, almost mystically. One could not be as good without the other, no matter how exquisite; in this way I could lay partial claim to the wonder of the music, and this revelation spurred my voice on, clearer and ever more confidently, until the music of Mr. Y and Ariel Fleck rang majestically through the cathedral-esque ceilings of the Ayrie.

It was saddening to approach the song's end, but I gave no sign of sorrow. I ended it as gracefully as I had begun. I closed my lips, and Mr. Y's fingers left the keys. I felt as though somewhere, deep in my ungainly chest, a cage had been torn open, and Mr. Y seemed to feel similar exultation. He turned to me.

Just then, a sudden smattering of applause startled us, and we spun around to see Daddy and Gangle, our unexpected and impressed audience, grinning widely. I blushed and turned back around. I felt as though they had intruded into a secret garden whose location only myself and Mr. Y were supposed to know.

"Ah, sorry to burst in," apologized Gangle. "But it was time to come up, and we couldn't bear to interrupt your music. _Magnifica,_ Mr. Y, and you too, Signorina!"

"Yes, beautiful," seconded Daddy.

Mr. Y looked as though he were a bit disturbed by their surprise entrance as well, but he bowed politely.

"Thank you. This is the aria for Christine Daae, and when Miss Fleck here turned up early I decided to run it by her voice, which, as you can hear, is excellent." He turned to me and rubbed his chin, as though he had noticed something pleasant about me that he'd never seen before. "Her voice has the sound of an immature Miss Daae, even though the qualities in their voices are not alike. Miss Fleck's voice is much lighter, fairly agile, very bird-like. It did the song justice."

I did Mr. Y's music justice! He thought my voice was excellent! I don't even remember what happened next, I was so full of joy. The only other memory I have of that moment was when the Three of us were dismissed with our keys and cards. Mr. Y had seated himself back at his piano. The honey-hued rays of light from the windows illuminated the particles in the air, transforming it into fairy-dust that surrounded Mr. Y like a halo, giving him the appearance of a saint on an icon. It was so delicious that I could've fainted. Then the heavy Ayrie door swiftly closed it away.

Mr. Y. The Phantom of the Opera. What nonsense.

We descended in silence for a little while. I felt as though I'd had a glimpse of heaven, and now must be led away, down through the darkness, back to mundane earth.

"Ariel," Daddy growled softly but firmly. "Why did you run away from breakfast like that? You startled the dickens out of everyone. They thought you were dashing off to be sick somewhere, and then you never came back."

So he hadn't heard what I'd said?

_"Si, si. _You said something quick to me, but I didn't hear," added Gangle. "Then I looked for you, and you were gone, and we thought we would have to tell Mr. Y that we couldn't find you."

"Oh," I replied weakly.

Daddy's voice assumed a severe tone. "I believe we are owed an explanation and an apology, Ariel."

I mumbled some dumb excuse about wanting to go catch the air and get an ice or something, and then see some things in the Ayrie. I don't think neither Daddy nor Gangle believed it, but since they couldn't fathom any other plausible reason for my hasty withdrawal, they seemed content to be satisfied with that and accepted my apology.

"Very well then, Baby Fleck," said Daddy. "But I expect more reasonable behavior from you in the future."

"Yes, sir."

)

(

)

High upon my hoop, floating and falling in that intoxicating memory of music, I felt lighter than air. Even if only in a musical dimension, Mr. Y loved me! My every movement sang the joyous refrain. He loved me! I forgot the steady drone of the crowd and became lost in the dream. There was nothing in the world but the warmth of the lights, the bouncing tension of the rigging, and the fluidity of my unbound, unrestrained body flying through space, through memory, through music.

Distantly I heard the music stop, and when I stopped and gave my traditional wave, I do believe the crowd had enjoyed my reverie as well. Down I was lowered.

"Bella! Meraviglioso!" I heard an Italian voice different from Gangle's cry. "Splendido! Sorprendente!"

It turned out to be Giovanni, Gangle's older brother, applauding with great fervor. Beside him stood Gangle himself, and that old friend of his, Maria. They too were clapping, but that Giovanni character seemed bent on showing everyone up in the enthusiasm department; in fact, he approached me with his hand outstretched.

"Ah! Mees Ah-ree-ella!" he crowed, shaking my hand in a vise-like grip. "I am-ah so pleased to be seeing you again! You are very tahl-een-ted lady, _si, si! _Gregory tell-ah me you are, but now I see for myself! Ees so en-spy-ee-ring, the way-ah you perform. _Splendido!" _

All this he said extremely fast while pumping my arm and staring at my breasts. I felt like he would soon try to kiss me or something.

Gangle came to my rescue. "Giovanni!" he exclaimed. "Tu sei suo inquietante. Sii educato!"

The man gave me a final smile and then shrugged insolently at Gangle. "Non essere un ipocrita, mafioso. Io non sto cercando di preoccuparsi di lei."

The Maria lady shook her head in exasperation. "Ay, ay! Non bisticciare! Andiamo a pranzo."

Don't ask me what all that Italian meant. And so I was freed to go to my dressing room, although Gangle shot me a pained, apologetic smile before he and his bunch left. I was glad to get back into my clothes.

)

(

)

It felt as though "Love Never Dies" was playing in my mind all that day, as though someone popped a cylinder in my ears, and it provided a serene backdrop to everything I did, even the Pennysworth act. It was amusing to hear such a heavenly song while Genevieve and Damien contorted and breathed fire in the dim, smoky red lights.

Speaking of Genny, she was becoming amazingly good at the precarious art of bodily contorting. I watched her. While the crowd around me murmured and bit finger nails, Genny seemed to defy gravity and the very limits of the human frame, with a cocky, almost smug pride, as though she knew it and loved it. Up went her body, onto a wooden peg, where she did a handstand and brought her legs over her head, more, more, almost to the breaking point, to the verge of screaming, to bring her toes against her frazzled hair. There was nervous applause.

It was obviously strenuous; in the glowing torchlight I could see the sweat illuminated on her forehead and the tightness of her lips, but she carried on, an inspiring mixture of grimness and determination. She lay on her stomach. I knew what was coming. This was the most awe-inspiring trick she knew, and it never failed to send a chill of fear through me, for it was potentially deadly if done wrong.

Still on her stomach, she bent her legs, tensed her muscles, and raised her hips off the floor. Slowly, her body began arching completely unnaturally, completely against the usual restraints of the spine. The crowd held their breath, lest even a sound should throw her off. She was bending herself in half, until at last there she was: still on her stomach, but with her rear on top of her head and her legs pointed out in front of her. Genny, defying nature in a pose that could snap her spine and kill her if she pulled a wrong move.

I closed my eyes and did not open them until she was on her feet and bowing, and the relieved crowd at last felt free to applaud her, loudly and without abandon. Both Pennysworth siblings bowed and exited. As was my custom, I went to see Genny in her dressing room.

"So, Ariel," she inquired chattily, teasing and pinning her big head of hair back into perfection, "Do you like that book? The Awakening, I mean?"

If you don't know already, that book is about a married lady called Edna who becomes dissatisfied with her life as a wife and mother, and eventually has an affair with a fellow. Things fall apart, resulting in the woman losing both men, husband and lover, and she commits suicide, walking slowly into the ocean and allowing it to overpower her. I actually did like it for its stark reality, although it made me unhappy, and I said so.

Now finished with her hair, Genny sat cross-legged on her dressing stool, grinning, with her head propped in her hands and the stick of a lollipop bobbing about on her lips.

"Well, that's to be expected," she chuckled expertly around it. "The book's far from cheerful. But I'm surprised you like it; Della said it was horrid." She rolled her eyes, clearly thinking that Della was seven shades of a fool. "Why do you like it, Ariel?"

"I like it because it's honest," I said truthfully. "Edna is a very honest woman, even if the thought of adultery makes me cringe. And it's not the fact that she dies, necessarily, that I am made unhappy by it. I'm unhappy because I don't think she entirely understood what she really wanted."

Genny's eyebrows raised in interest. "I declare I've never heard of a reaction like that before. Do continue."

It was hard to explain, but I tried. "I believe she ultimately wanted independence," I said. "Or something like independence. Perhaps to be taken seriously, but instead of being truly independent, on her own, she gravitated towards a man who seemed ready to provide her with it. And that's not really independence. At the end both men are gone, but because she hasn't managed to perceive of independence apart from men as something possible, as her one friend did, she felt hopeless, and then she died, all because she couldn't completely understand what she wanted."

The lollipop stick in Genny's mouth stopped bobbing, and she looked at me like I was some sort of literary genius.

"Cripes," she marveled. "I've never even thought of that. Edna, not fully understanding herself. Equating independence with suitable men. Land sakes, Ariel, I declare you never fail to stun me. I daresay you ought to go be a professor and leave all us freak hicks behind!"

We laughed together and kissed each other's ears affectionately until Damien's head, like a floating phantom, popped into the room.

"You comin' to lunch, Genny?" he demanded. "C'mon, let's get going."

"I'll come when I feel like it, Scarface!" she shot back with an almost irrational nastiness. "I don't need a damn escort. Scram!"

She punctuated this last word with a dismissive wave of her hand and a toss of her great head, but Damien didn't leave, nor did he answer angrily back, as I supposed he would. Instead, his eyes softened, his flame-seared mouth closed, and he straightened up.

"You try so hard to make me hate you, Genny Penny," he said with an injured tenderness completely unlike him, "But you ain't succeeded yet."

And with that, he shut the door and left.

The cocky tilt of Genny's chin deflated, along with all the rest of her arrogant facade. Her brother's usage of her pet name, along with his evasive (and obviously unexpected) way of telling her he loved her had completely disarmed her. She spent a few minutes staring at the door, blinking rapidly, and then she bowed her head and let out a pitiful, weeping moan.

The whole situation confused and disturbed me. "Genny," I cried, going to hug her. "What...?"

"It's alright," she quavered, shooing me away. "I'll be fine, Ariel. Never mind. Just go to lunch. I'll come along. No, there's no need to be guilty, just go."

She dropped into a chair in the corner and continued sniffling. I knew I had to let her be, despite my desperate longing to help.

)

(

)

Saddened, I went to lunch, where Damien was already seated, his usually smug face made alien with an expression of genuine grief. He ate his shepherd's pie as though it gave him no pleasure, pushing it around and taking small, unenthusiastic nibbles. I decided not to say anything to him.

Daddy entered with Gangle, the second and third to arrive to lunch. The others would come trickling in soon after. I could already hear the rumble.

"Ah, Signorina," sighed Gangle as he sat beside me. He looked tired. Even the rubber snakes on his jacket seemed to droop. "I love Giovanni, but he is just as stupid as ever. I apologize for his behavior before. Forgive him, please."

"I'll forgive him if he promises to quit speaking so fast," I replied, smiling, to let him know I was being a tease. "Pass the tea."

Daddy also looked tired and droopy. "I think it's true, what they say about taking time off in exercize. Once you go back, you feel beat."

I received the teapot, filled my cup, and then set about making Daddy a cup as well, with extra sugar. I would never forget how frightened I was that day he'd had a seizure at lunch.

"Daddy, you're not getting too tired, are you?" I felt compelled to ask, knowing his maddening capacity for shrugging off discomforts.

"Tired, yes, but not too tired. Don't panic, I'm not dying. I just need to re-adjust to the way things are."

I looked intently at his face, searching for signs of dishonesty.

He felt it. "I am not lying, Ariel," he said calmly. "Now eat your lunch."

I did. It was not until the meal was over, however, that I realized that Genevieve had never come.

)

(

)

I wanted to find her, to see if she was alright, but I had to get to my Aviary. King Charles was waiting. I'm telling you, being a Queen isn't all it's cracked up to be. I touched up my makeup in a mirror, replaced my hat with a crown, and entered the glass Aviary that was my palace.

"I have returned, ladies and gentle-fowl!" I announced dramatically, and I strode to my throne among a great outcry of giggling chirps and adoring squawks. The leaves of the trees shook. Wings flapped, feathers flew, and beady eyes, filled with love, blinked and twitched. Larks looped, nightengales nipped, partridges pooped, and with a grand extension of his blue, aristocratic neck, King Charles strutted solemnly to my side and opened his fan of tailfeathers. The rest of my fine-feathered subjects held their peace.

"How do you do, King Charles?" I asked.

He let out a dignified honk, shook his feathers, and sat at my side. Decorum is very important in a royal court.

The dear silly ignoramuses thus satisfied, I motioned for my (human) helpers to open the Aviary doors and let in the patrons. You'd think sitting on a throne and taking pictures with people would be a no-brainer, easy job. Truth is, it was the most stressful time of my day. Regardless of my feelings, I had to sit like a serene queen, smiling and radiant, as though there was simply nothing more I wanted to do but suffer fools, most of which were men, for two hours.

"Miz Fleck!" came a familiar, gurgling exclamation, and little Toby's freckled face popped up between two shrubs. "I got food for yer birds!"

Toby was eight, a dirt-poor kid with no one in the world. He tended to Coney's horses and elephants for a living, and when he wasn't doing that he was looking after all the other animals, including my birds, for he loved them. I was always so happy to see him. Whenever I could, I bestowed little treats upon him.

I ignored the backwoods boor at my left and extended my arms to Toby.

"Food for my birds! Well, isn't that dandy?" I looked into the grubby little sack and saw that it was filled with bits of dried bread and fruit, obviously (and this made my eyes water) taken from his breakfast. "Thank you, Mr. Toby. You are very nice. Isn't he nice, Charles?"

Charles was rarely anything but coldly polite to men, even little boys, and so he gave Toby one of his curt nods. I dug about in my pocket and gave him a much more satisfactory offering of three butterscotch candies, which he took with perfectly round eyes.

"Thanks, Miz Fleck!" he cried. "That's reg'lar dope! Well, I gotta beat it; there's lot's more animals to see. G' bye!"

I looked after his retreating little body through misty eyes. He was a "reg'lar chap", as he would have put it.

Suddenly Charles leapt up shrieking, throwing his tailfeathers erect violently, causing the patrons to look over in agitation. This could only mean that Gangle was within the bird's eyesight. Scanning the walkways beyond the glass walls for a man with snakes on his coat, I was able to locate him easily; he was walking along with his grandiose brother and that Maria lady.

I sized Maria up. She was lovely in that Mediterranean sort of way, with dark hair, dark eyes, and slightly tanned skin, just like Gangle. Her posture leaned forward with the unmistakenable help of an S-bend corset. Her hair was fashionably large, topped by a wide-brimmed straw hat whose ribbons matched the piping on her wrists and skirt, as well as the pattern on her gloves. This lady had it together.

Giovanni made a gesture towards a food stand and motioned for Maria and Gangle to wait for him. I kept watching. Away went the older brother, but once he was out of sight, Maria and Gangle looked cautiously after him, as though they needed to make sure the "coast was clear" for something. Maria then smiled mischeviously, and twaddled the snakes on Gangle's coat. He took her into his arms and touched her face. She kissed his cheek, he kissed her back, and they stood, as though no one else could see, looking into each other's eyes.

I felt as though a sword were piercing my soul. From where I sat, trembling in my glass palace, I watched them, as pretty as a picture, a beautiful vision of love that anyone would have been touched to look upon. But I felt suddenly and irrevocably destroyed.

Why had I always assumed that Gangle and I would always be together, watching stars and solving mysteries? The man had a life of his own. At thirty-two, he had every right in the world to love a woman. We were not exclusive. Mentally, I had no reason to be upset, but emotionally I was heartbroken, lost, betrayed. He told me that they were friends. Why had he lied?

More importantly, what did I care? What was Gangle to me? He was a friend.

Maria noticed Giovanni and quickly straightened up. Gangle adjusted his snakes. Back came the older brother, his hands full of steaming meatball sandwiches. He gestured towards an eating pavillion and nodded his head, clearly wanting the two to follow him there. Giovanni led the way. Gangle took Maria's hand. When it was clear that Giovanni could not see, he placed his hand on her lower back and snuck in another kiss.

I couldn't look anymore. I turned back to my palace of birds, feeling as though I'd witnessed a death. Charles watched Gangle walk away calmly, noting that he was with Maria and therefore no longer posed a threat. He put down his tailfeathers and sat.

I stayed in the palace for the rest of the day. I don't even remember what I did. Everyone was just one big blur. I remember closing time, though. The tree branches filled with fluffed, feathery bodies that huddled together for bedtime. Beady eyes shut, and legs were tucked in.

"Well, King Charles," I told him, looking out at the setting sun. "I do believe you've won."

He honked, and I laughed, along with all the rest of the birds, until the sky was filled with stars. It wasn't until I felt the tears on my neck that I realized I had actually been crying.

)

(

)

Gangle didn't come to dinner. He left me a note on our door that explained why. This is what it said:

_Signorina!_

_Giovanni and Maria have invited me to dinner, and so I am going with them. We will be out late, so don't wait about for me. I remembered that you wanted me to take out an advertisment in the NY Times, and I did, under the name "Vincent Vellazio". All I said was that anyone with information about the Opera Populaire's "Phantom of the Opera affair" that could be useful for an upcoming book should state a meeting place and time in another personal ad, and that they will be paid three dollars and fifty cents for their time. I also mentioned that a Miss Puckett (you) would be a secretary, doing the actual meeting. Never mind contributing any money; I am pleased to do it myself. _

_-Gangle._

_PS. And I also want to say that you have a beautiful singing voice. You must have been so happy, singing with Mr. Y. Together, you make wonderful music! _

)

(

)

Since there would obviously be no star-gazing that evening, I decided to take a hot bath. Off came the corsets, releasing my chubbiness. Off came the brace, and my leg resumed its crooked twist. Off came the dress, revealing the milky, blue-veined flesh. Off came the wig and makeup, and the beautiful face of "The Fabulous Miss Fleck" drooled down the sink in streaks of black and red, and when I looked into the mirror there was ol' Ariel, plain and frazzled. I carefully removed Mama's ring and set it aside.

I sunk into the bath and relaxed, releasing my muscles, allowing myself to become weightless and numb. My mind went blank. All there was in the world were the pearly tiles above my head, the steam rising from the tub, and the shadowy image of my submerged nakedness.

I looked at it, my mind still hazy. It wasn't very attractive, but it was mine. I wiggled the toes on my bad leg. It was amazing how Mr. Y had been able to discern the beauty underneath all this ugly, when I couldn't even see it for myself. I wished he could see the love underneath, too. It had been so vibrant and real when we'd made music together. I closed my eyes and let the image of Mr. Y surrounded the gold fairy dust fill my mind. That memory would never fade, never alter, and I would remember it and be glad for the rest of my life. It was like the song. How did it go?

_Love never dies_

_Love never falters_

_Once it has spoken,_

_Love is yours._

I dreamed on, weightless and warm, the water lulling me into a deep calm. In my mind, I was once again in the Ayrie. Mr. Y was playing the piano. We sang and played together, the rays of light from the window wrapping around us both, enveloping us in glory as harmonies floated and notes danced. I loved his music, and he loved my voice. There was a vase of roses on the piano, red with black blushing the edges, for those were both our favorites.

"Ariel," said his musical voice, "How I love our music."

"I love it, too," I replied.

On and on I dreamed, my mind filled with song and light, no phantoms, no fear. If I were to have slipped beneath the surface of the water and drowned, it would have been the most divine death in the world. Just giving in to the warmth and allowing it to consume me...

I became aware of a plump softness under my fingers. It didn't startle me, but when I opened my eyes a little, I saw that my fingers were curled around my breasts. I had been feeling them. I was only a little surprised. Baths are almost like the night; both take you away to an alternate land of dark and quiet, and such things don't matter. So I returned to the dream and kept on. I smiled a bit. My body was ugly, but these parts were okay.

)

(

)

I walked home to Fleck Manor wrapped in a heavy bathrobe, feeling contemplative. The stars were out. If Gangle were here we'd be reflecting on the day, but I had done some rather interesting reflecting myself, and I was still unsure of how I felt about it. Had it not been night, I'd probably have panicked the way I had the previous night, when I had also done some curious bodily exploration. But it was night. I could think it through.

It's hard to come to any real conclusions when you know no facts, but I came to one. It occured to me that for some reason I had never really seen myself before. It didn't occur to me that Ariel Fleck, the soul, was really inhabiting a body of flesh and bone. It didn't occur to me until Mr. Y helped me free my soul. Once the soul was awakened, the body wanted to awaken too.

I thought of the Christine Daae automaton. I thought of Gangle touching Maria's back. I thought of the times Daddy and Mama would look around sneakily and then kiss. I thought of Charles and his habit of throwing open his tailfeathers. I thought of everything I knew about sexuality. It was true! Once the soul awakened...

I opened the door to Fleck Manor.

"I'm here, Daddy!" I called, seeing his patterned head poking over the arm of the parlor chair. "Reading?"

He didn't answer. I wondered if he was sleeping.

"Oh, Daddy, dear. Do you want to go to bed?"

Still, no reply, and when I hurried over to investigate my heart clutched, for he was seizuring, the journal he'd been writing in on the floor, his poor face twisted into a tight, blue-tinged grimace. I cried out in panic. No, no, I mustn't panic! This was normal for him, even if it looked horrible. I quickly recalled Dr. Lawrence's instructions and sprung into action.

Daddy was so big that I couldn't drag him sideways too well, but I tilted his head and let all that saliva drain onto a nearby cleaning rag. I did not try to restrain him, but I had to hold him sideways because of the couch. And that was all I could do. There was nothing to do but wait, which I hated, for seeing Daddy in such a condition was terrible. It looked painful. Sometimes the air being forced through his throat caused him to make litle sounds, too, which made him seem even more pitiful, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. Poor Daddy!

And then the shaking stopped and Daddy's eyes opened, but they were glazed, uncomprehending. I wanted so to hug him, but Dr. Lawrence said that I must stay away from him until he was entirely himself again, for in this state his mind was as blank as an infant's, and his first instinct would be to lash about in fear and protect himself. If I tried to restrain him, he might panic and attack me without even knowing it.

I retreated to the stove and watched him. He sat up, groggily, and fell over again, feeling stupidly at the air, then at the couch. Once again he struggled to rise, and this time he smacked the armrest before falling back again. Then he was still. He felt his face clumsily and blinked, and looked around.

"Daddy!" I cried, and ran over to him.

He looked sleepily confused, but not completely out of it.

"You had a seizure, Daddy," I told him clearly, wiping his mouth. "Do you understand me?"

He tried to talk, but only succeeded in making a growly jumble of sounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and almost looked like he was going to cry. Then he rolled over, and after a few moments he spoke.

"Air-yull," he mumbled. "Dun...dun get the doctor. Dun go. M' fine. I wan' go to bed. M' fine."

I hugged him and wept in relief. He was back to his old self.

"Okay, Daddy," I sniffed. "Let's go to bed. But we'll have to tell Doctor Lawrence in the morning."

"Mmmmph."

He thumped down heavily on the bed, put his tattooed head on the pillow, and promptly began snoring. I took a deep breath and lay beside him. _Good work, Ariel. Disaster averted_.

But then another voice in my head blared forth. _Yes, it's a good thing you bothered to come when you did. Any longer, and he would have been left to shake all alone! Poor Daddy, all sick and alone, while you take your precious time feeling yourself in the bath. Really, Ariel! _

I pulled the covers around myself, feeling terrible, but not in guilt or shame, but with the helpless feeling that a door had been unlocked and opened deep inside me, and I had lost both the key and the willpower to want to shut it again. I wished Gangle would come home, so we could sit under the stars together, and I could feel sane again.

_**(Miss Fleck stops here for now.) **_

Miss Fleck stopped and laughed to mask her embarrassment. "I apologize for the frankness, but it's all true. Sorry if I've permanently tained your idea of Edwardian women."

Mr. Whittington was still on the couch, reclining on the pillow, resting. He sat up on his elbows and shrugged. "No, you haven't. But you have confirmed a few suspicions." He frowned slightly, and ventured, carefully, "Have you ever told Mr. De Rossi about any of this?"

"Only indirectly," she replied. "But please don't tell him any of what I've said. Poor man's in jail. Don't want to drive him mad, you know?"

"Of course not."

"Very good." Miss Fleck rose and headed for the bathroom. "Now, if you don't mind, I could use a nice freezing bath."

**Notes from Authoress:**

**1. Well, little psychologists! You survived! Put away your notebooks. **

**2. IMPORTANT: I didn't mention this before, but the day on which I go on Thanksgiving Break (Nov. 17) there will NOT be a new chapter. (Would have been 13) Waaah! I need that extra week to do the conclusion to the other thing. It'll all be better on Dec. 1st. **


	12. Dr Gangle vs Mr De Rossi

Chapter Twelve

Dr. Gangle vs. Mr. De Rossi

Rather than bring Mr. De Rossi up to speed on the rather tillitating parts of Ariel's latest part of the story, Mr. Whittington focused purely on the facts, and without further ado, both Mr. Whittington and Rodger settled back with their notebooks for the latest installment.

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

Dinner with Giovanni and Maria was as pleasant as it was an exercise in evasion and maintaining positive relations. Over a meal of linguini, clams, and sparkling glasses of white wine, we talked about our day together in Phantasma, careful to avoid such hair-raising topics as Ariel, what constituted an innocent vs. lewd glance, and why precisely Maria and I had vanished after lunch.

Reclining in her chair, her hair topped by a velvet hat, her eyes partly shaded by a veil, Maria was as beautiful as a piece of forbidden fruit. At her side, Giovanni was just as exuberant and cocksure as ever, pouring wine and laughing at his own jokes. The world-or at least this little piece of it-was his to command. Once or twice, however, I detected a trembling undercurrent of fear in his chuckle, and the look in his eyes as he looked at Maria and then at me was that of a wolverine alpha-male who feared a _coup d'etat _by the lesser beasts. To hide it, he partook heartily of the wine and cigars, acting like he was _Don Giovanni_, being brought up to speed on the latest developments by his _soldatos. _

"So, Gregory," said Giovanni, exhaling a stream of smoke. "How you getting on with Ah-ree-ella? If I were you, I'd move in queekly-like, or by thees-ah time next year she'll be cooking another man's supper. She too cute-ah to stay alone for long."

He didn't look at me when he said that. He didn't need to. I remembered the fire in his eyes when he'd introduced himself to Ariel earlier, the way he deliberately gave her body the ol' once over. He suspected that I was getting friendly with Maria again, so he had no qualms about getting friendly with Ariel in revenge.

Of course he did not say this. We never approached the subject once during the whole meal, but it was there, like an elephant in the room.

"Giovanni," purred Maria. She stroked his chin. "Never mind Gregory, _bello._ Tell him about our plans."

The pleasure on Giovanni's face when asked to ignore me and talk about himself was borderline orgasmic. _"Ah, si, mia cara,"_ he replied to his darling. "I will do that."

The funny thing is that Maria was stroking my leg under the table at the exact same time she was stroking Giovanni's chin. I have rarely been so grateful for long tablecloths.

"Well-ah, brother, Maria and I have eek-sten-ded our stay here. You remember the Gambinos? Well, they offered to board us through Seh-tehm-burr, for only a leetle money. Very good for us, no?"

"Ah, _si,_ very good," I replied, both in reply to Giovanni and in quick, winking appreciation of Maria's expert massaging skills.

"I like-ah the United States," said Giovanni. "Nice place, nice things to see. Very nice things to see."

I saw where he was going and gave a preemptive strike. "Ah, but does the United States like _you, _Giovanni, that is the question! You found any good places for restaurants? You still looking?"

His clean-shaven, well-molded countenance briefly tightened in displeasure at having his insinuation spun around, but his voice was perfectly cool as he lifted his wine to his lips and replied, "I am, ah, _still looking."_

Between the time he sipped and the time he finished, Maria concocted a conversation-steerer.

"The Fourth of Joo-lye is coming soon," she said. "We don't have that holiday in Ee-taly. I have never been at a celebration for it before, no, not in all-ah my life. We must...ah..." Here she felt me most tantalizingly-"Do something."

"Si," I replied, a little too feelingly, and I corrected myself. "Ah, si. I will likely have all sorts of things to do for the ceremonies, but I will, most certainly..." I smoothed my hand over her stroking one-"Make time for you."

"And we must see Ah-ree-ella again," added Giovanni.

"Si, si," I replied. "I will make time for all of you. Nobody gets left out."

Shortly after that, the meal ended. Maria's hand withdrew from my leg, but before I could rise, it was back again with a piece of paper. A secret note! I tucked it into my pocket and stood up.

"We will see you again soon, Greg," said Giovanni, taking Maria's hand a bit roughly. "Buona notte."

"Buona notte."

)

(

)

That sneaky Maria! The note told me to go to the Gypsy Cafe (which was brand-new in those days) at eight o' clock and wait for her. In hindsight, my behavior disappoints me, but at the time my heart was filled with lust, and my legs were still tingling where her little hand had touched them. Ah, Maria! Maria! After all these years, my heart still pounded at the very touch of Maria! Off I strolled through the night. Above me were the stars. Ariel would be watching them alone tonight.

My heart stopped pounding. I slowed my step, my mind suddenly troubled as I looked into the diamond points of light. I saw her in my mind. She was sitting on the bench, looking up, as I now was, her dreamy eyes full of stars and her hands folded in her lap. She might say something, but there was no one to hear.

I was filled with remorse.

_As you ought to be! _(nagged Dr. Gangle.) _How can you do this? Maria is practically engaged to your brother, and you're off to have a petting session with her at a cafe! You should be protecting her from herself, leading her in the right way. You're the man here. Act like one!_

_Practically engaged means nothing! _(growled Mr. De Rossi.) _Until there's a ring, it's anybody's game! Besides, you and Maria were in love first! Giovanni just swooped in after you left. You've got the claim on her, not him! _

_But it's Ariel you love, remember? _(reminded Dr. Gangle.) _Or have you forgotten her and the whole reason why you wanted to be a better person? _

That made me feel so injured that I seriously considered going right back to Coney, right back to Ariel.

_Well_, (sighed Mr. De Rossi.) _If sitting on a bench listening to Ariel wet herself over Mr. Y is what you want to do, go on! Forsake the company of a woman who really wants you, and torment yourself listening to the romantic groanings of one who doesn't. Great plan! _

The glowing eyes of the Ayrie suddenly intruded upon my mental image of lonely Ariel, watching the stars. Now she was watching the Ayrie, hunger in her eyes. I heard her singing with Mr. Y. She wasn't giving me the tiniest thought. How could she when Mr. Y was there? She was so in love with the man that she would not even believe he was the Opera Ghost! And I was still trekking along with her, trying to help her disprove it, all the while pushing her away from me.

Grief and fury boiled and twisted in my heart, and I gave the pavement a vicious kick. Hell with it all. I was going to see Maria.

)

(

)

An hour later, I was leaning back against the supple padding of a dark, smoky booth, with my Maria in my arms, her perfumed hair in my face and her hands lovingly caressing me. To deflect any potential criticism, we ordered drinks, which we largely ignored. We were too busy loving each other.

"Bello," she whispered. "You so sweet."

"Bella," I whispered back. "You sweetest."

And then we lapsed into the comfortable warmth of embraces and long, luxurious kisses. Ah, if only it were not for the nagging guilt, my joy would be complete. At this very moment, Giovanni was in bed, sleeping the sleep of the handsome and ignorant, his mind swimming with dreams, and I was in this cafe, kissing Maria.

"Gregory," Maria asked after a while, "You really going to get engaged to that Ah-ree-ella girl?"

It was as though a spotlight had suddenly blared upon me. "You going to get engaged to Giovanni?" I asked.

She remained leaning against me. "Until very recently, I thought so. We thought so."

"Giovanni doesn't want to marry you anymore?"

"No, no, he does," she said quickly. "But, Greg dear, I don't know if I do. When you left, Vanni sort of dashed in, calmed the hurt. He is a very nice man, Greg, even if the two of you have trouble sometimes. He is nice to me!"

"But..." I began for her.

She swallowed. "But now here you are again, and I still love you."

"And I still love you, Bella." I put her under the crook of my neck. "Very much."

There was a silence, but Maria broke it with a trembling, "I don't want to hurt Vanni." A tear bubbled out of her eye. "He does not deserve to be hurt, but it seems that somebody must be hurt when all is said and done, Greg. So that is why I asked if you going to get engaged to Ah-ree-ella. I need to know, to help my decision."

So Maria was having the same problems.

"I'm having a hard decision, too," I confessed. "Until you came back, I thought I would surely marry Ariel one day. But now she's not very interested, and here you are, Bella. I did not think I would ever see you again, so I never gave it any thought."

"So...what do we do?" Maria ventured feebly.

"We make a decision," I said, knowing it would come to this one way or another. "Not tonight. We will wait it out, until September, and then we will both make a final decision. For you, it will be either me or Giovanni, and for me it will be either you or Ariel. This sneaking around is not good for anyone. It must be one or the other."

It sounded harsh and terrible, no matter how softly it was delivered.

Maria quivered. "Yes. That is what we must do."

"But no matter what the choices are, Bella, I want you to know that I will always love you."

"I will always love you too, Bello."

More kisses, even more fiercely than before, aided by our emotions. If this were Italy, I would have taken her to a hotel and had her three ways by now, but my love for Ariel, struggling though it was, prevented me from getting to that point. It made me hungry, though. Just like feeling hungry for a sandwich or something. It nagged me, even after I waved goodbye to Maria and watched her vanish into the house. It continued to nag me, even as I entered Phantasma and went into bed.

I lay down, tossed off my drawers, and looked wearily around in the darkness. Ariel was certainly in bed now. I brought my tongue across my lips and tasted Maria's lipstick.

_You're an animal, De Rossi. _(I thought to myself.) _But it's true, what you said back the restaurant. You and Maria have a decision to make. _

I rolled onto my belly and sank into my sheets, lonely and miserable. At this moment, Ariel was likely playing bridge with Alf, dreaming about how wonderful Mr. Y and his music was, and back in Brooklyn, Maria and Giovanni were likely doing the horizontal tango.

Me? I was lying in bed, nerves aflame, preparing to sleep the troubled sleep of the deeply frustrated. _Buona notte! _

_)_

_(_

_)_

I hate warm, dreamy, rose-scented days in July, and not because I've got anything against warmth, or dreams, or even roses. It's just that when those three elements get all cooked up in the heat of a dusky, hazy July day, its effect on me is surefire: it makes my mind drift, most maddeningly, to sex. I found it (and still find it) astounding. Despite my composed "Dr. Gangle" persona, despite years of socialization and manners, despite the fact that humanity was producing flying machines and antibiotics, all it took was the suggestive hint of a warm breeze, and I became a crazed alpha-male, straight out of the Stone Age, eager to let some girl have it. Of course, Phantasma was not a happy breeding-ground, and I was no alpha-male; sublimation was the name of the game. On days like those, I had a game plan that worked: yell extra loud, read plenty of mathematics textbooks, and refrain from eating things like tacos. You know, things like that.

So why am I telling you this? Well, it will help to explain my behavior, for the story picks up on one of _those days. _The timing couldn't have been worse.

I awoke just before dawn and gazed, yawning, at the calendar over my dresser. My eyes widened. The yawn died in my throat. Sweat broke out on my brow. In big, cruel letters, the calendar informed me that it was JULY THE FIRST, 1907. I spun around to look out the window. It was hazy, dreamy, warm, and-horror of horrors!-the scent of roses drifted into my nostrils. I scarcely had time to scream, for suddenly it was upon me. I helplessly clutched my bedsheets as the transformation unfolded, like Dr. Jekyll turning into Mr. Hyde. I felt the tingling rush of testosterone pounding through my veins, felt my heart swelling with warmth, and soon everything looked faintly pink and a bit sparkly. When at last it was through, I rose from the bed with a devil-may-care smirk. I ran my fingers through my hair.

Buongiorno, ladies. Gregory De Rossi is awake.

_"Calm down!" _wailed my Dr. Gangle persona, pounding on my ribcage (for he was trapped). _"Remember the plan!" _

I went through my costume and makeup routine feeling like Don Juan, taking extra care with the razor; to top it all off I slapped on copious amounts of aftershave and cologne. I looked in the mirror. _Ciao, bello. _

_"Alright, you're in costume now!" _Dr. Gangle nagged. _"Now act the part!" _

I swaggered down to breakfast, head held high, and tossed myself into a chair like I owned the joint. There was a stack of waffes, surrounded by hash browns and sausage patties, and I partook generously of the waffles. No sausage for the Italian Stallion, unfortunately, on _those days_ I must eat only plain, unexciting foods.

"_So far, so good,"_ Dr. Gangle said. _"Now you only need to-"_

What I needed to do, I never heard, for at that moment a new variable came strolling into the "Self-Control Equation", namely the-ahem-"Fabulous Miss Fleck". _La mia stella brillante! _ Dr. Gangle's panicked cries were muffled as I looked her up and down, warmth spreading in my belly.

"Buongiorno, Signorina," I greeted her.

She examined me for a moment, her expression unreadable. If only subconciously, she noticed a change in me. "Buongiorno, Signor De Rossi," she replied at last, shaking her head as though brushing aside a notion.

As she began helping herself to the food, she drew in close and murmured in my ear, "I haven't seen a single reply in the Times. Have you?"

"Reply?"

"The advertisement, you silly dope."

"Ah, the advertisement," I chuckled suavely, winking as I drizzled syrup in all the little waffle holes. "I'm afraid I haven't got any replies either. Nada one. Pass the salt, Signorina."

She did, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Lovely day, this is," I continued, leaning back and flicking salt onto my hash browns. "Smells faintly of roses, did you notice? Ha, ha!"

"Gangle."

I turned and found myself looking at a rather bemused Ariel.

"You are acting..." She seemed to struggle for the right word. "Funny."

Dr. Gangle scolded me_. "She's right, you know! Pull yourself together!" _

"Acting funny," I repeated, forcing myself to look less affected. "Yes, yes, I am sorry. The heat...well, it's a long story. Any ideas other than advertisements?"

She seemed content with my excuse. "To be honest, I'm drawing blanks," she admitted. "But I'm certainly not giving up yet. Give me time."

Alf finally came in and sat down beside her, getting right down to the business of eating sausage, leaving his daughter to think. Her brow furrowed as she pensively sipped her coffee. The morning light sparkled in her eyes, those dark, dreamy eyes that made me...

_"Stop!" _wailed Dr. Gangle_. "Don't stare at her. Don't think about her!" _

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she mused at length. "You know, I think I might-"

She stopped abruptly as Genevieve Pennysworth accosted her, most suddenly, from the behind.

"Arieeeel," she crooned, oblivious to the fact that she was smothering her beloved friend against her ample bosom. "The Fourth of July is coming up soon."

"I... know," gagged Ariel.

"Well, that's not all I came to say," giggled Genny, continuing to throttle her. "Damien and I are throwing an after-celebration on the waterfront. Swimming and fireworks, doesn't that sound so utterly too-too? You simply must come, or I'll be devastated. Will you?"

"S-Sure!"

"Marvelous. You're such a doll." Genny released her. "I'll expect you then, Arieeeel."

Alf chuckled as she went prancing off, leaving his daughter to massage her throat and re-adjust her hat. "She's something else, huh? What's she strong-arming you into now?"

"A Fourth of July celebration."

"From the looks of her invitation, I thought it was a football game. Hey, Ee-talian! What's the matter? Your face looks strange."

"M-My face?" I spluttered, finding myself under the sudden scrutiny of both Flecks. "I don't know what you mean."

They looked at each other and then at me with the exact same expression. The truth is, watching Ariel struggle against Genevieve had made me feel light-headed. Everything Ariel did today was making me feel light-headed.

"You look..." Alf struggled for the right word. "Funny."

Ariel nodded. "He says it's the heat."

I sighed.

)

(

)

Giovanni and Maria didn't come to Phantasma that day. I was glad they didn't. I was having a hard enough time pulling through with only Ariel to tempt me. It was a good thing I had such a busy job. Being alone with my thoughts on warm, dreamy, rose-scented days was never a good idea.

_Good job! _cheered Dr. Gangle._This is working out. You didn't stare at Ariel while she did acrobatics, you averted your eyes when she ate an oversized hot dog for lunch _(that was painful), _and you steadfastly refused to let your mind go to the gutter when she said _(while doing a crossword puzzle),_ "Oh, Gangle, this long one here was quite hard, but I finally did it!" Well done!_

Rehearsals were well underway for this excruciating song called "Bathing Beauty", performed by Meg Giry and her girls. During my downtime I watched. It wasn't that I enjoyed it, but I figured that it would act as a cleansing sorbet to my sad, sex-saturated mind. I lowered myself onto a bench, slightly out of their line of vision. I wearily looked at the rehearsal barn, examining the weatherbeaten grain of the wood. I sighed. A crumpled piece of paper went rolling by in the wind. One day I'd be dead and would feel better.

_Bathing beauty, on the beach!_

_Bathing beauty, say hello!_

_What a cutie, what a peach!_

_Bathing beauty, watch her go!_

_Posing under her parasol,_

_She is watcha call a real spectacle!_

_Prim and proper with class and poise,_

_But she's got the boys apoplectical!_

I'd quote more, but I like you too much. So there I was on that bench, a lady-less Don Juan, with only my rubber snakes to console me. Ha. Rubber snakes. I remembered the time Ariel tried to play a joke on me, and tug one of the snakes out. Little did she know it was sewn in, so she looked awfully goofy, that snake clutched in her fists as she pulled and pulled...

Bad thought! Bad, bad thought! Must think of new one!

"So, Signor Snake," I crooned to the rubber fellow on my left shoulder. "How are you this hot day?"

The thing flopped a little from my movements, but didn't talk, obviously.

"Ah, I understand. You would like to be somewhere cold, like under a rock. The heat is no good for a snake like you." I rubbed my eyes. "It is no good for me, either. I wish I could be under a cold rock."

Or getting laid. Ah! Bad thought!

"Gangle?"

I snapped out of it, and there was my lovely Ariel, standing before me, a question in her eyes. She looked nervous. I really hoped she hadn't witnessed me talking to the snakes on my jacket.

"Yes, Signorina?"

"I found something," she said breathlessly, and I could not tell whether she was happy or scared. "You'll come see it, won't you?"

Anything for my dreamy-eyed Signorina. Up I went, taking her little hand in mine, and as she led me along my heart was filled with conflicting emotions. Ah, walking hand in hand with her through the hot hubbub of the crowd was so nice. How could I ever be truly mad with her? In this moment I felt let in on some great secret of hers. She found something, and who was the first person she went running to with the discovery? Me. Speaking of which, what did she find, exactly?

"May I ask what we are going to see?"

"No, not yet," she said. "You'll see soon. It's at the base of the Ayrie."

My heart lurched. The base of the Ayrie? If she ended up showing me some dropped artifact of Mr. Y's, I would be very mad with her. Then I would cry myself to sleep for being mad with her.

When we reached the base of the towering Ayrie, Ariel guided me into the grassy area on the side that was currently in shadow, and dropped to her knees, feeling around like a trained dog. She tugged at some grass and gestured for me to come close.

"Here it is," she whispered. "Is anybody we know looking over at us?"

"No."

She grabbed a fistful of grass, gave a swift tug, and suddenly a whole patch of the ground moved! It was not real ground at all. It was a mat, and when Ariel pulled harder, it slipped away to reveal a trapdoor with a metal knob. I was amazed.

Ariel was so excited that she bounced on her heels a bit, making her feathers bob. "Isn't that dandy, Gangle?" she exclaimed. "A secret door! Right here beside the Ayrie! I bet Mr. Y keeps all sorts of secret things down here. Or perhaps it's a passage to somewhere!"

"Perhaps? You do not know? Er, haven't you opened it yet?"

She stopped in mid-bounce and blushed, lifting her eyes shyly. "Well, no, I haven't," she admitted. "I wanted to get you first."

"Ah, I see! Well, let's open it now."

She didn't move.

"Signorina?"

Ariel swallowed and blushed even deeper. "I wish you'd open it," she said, and then, very softly, she added, "I'm sort of...afraid to. Open the door, I mean."

The same Ariel Fleck who wanted to assume a secret identity and had installed me as her co-detective was afraid to open a door? I looked at her for a moment and saw that her lips were tight and her hands were clenched on her skirt. Why was she so afraid?

"Okay, Signorina, I will open it," I assented cautiously. "Coast is clear?"

It was, and I gave the knob a firm wrench. A dry, grinding scrape, a pop, and I pulled the door open. A cold draft of dirt-scented air rushed out, and when I leaned to look inside, all I saw was black and the rungs of a metal ladder, leading down, down, until the sight of them was obscured in darkness. The bottom seemed a long way down. I took a quick look around. People were largely ignoring us, supposing that we were going into some "employees only" area, leaving us more or less free to examine the trap-door openly.

"What do you suppose is down there?" Ariel breathed, fiddling with her hair.

I said I hadn't any idea, which betrayed my severe lack of practical imagination, but it was honest.

"It almost seems like a sewer," mused my companion. "But it smells too clean. Er, well, as clean as a dark, seemingly bottomless pit can be, I mean. Do you think we-ought to-go inside?"

"There's a ladder in there, so it stands to reason that it's perfectly safe, Signorina," I deduced.

She did not look convinced, and when I pointedly asked if she wanted _me_ to go in, she swallowed and gave a shy little nod. Ah, Signorina could be so cute.

The coast was still clear, so I carefully lowered myself onto the first rung of the ladder. It was dry and cold; I would not slip. Perceiving this, I felt free to continue my descent, making certain that my frock coat would not trip me up. Down I went. Below me was the darkness, and above me was the white square of light, partly obscured by my Signorina's anxious face.

"Oh, Gangle," she called, her voice reverberating like a thousand Ariels. "Is it so _very _deep?"

I couldn't tell, so I reached into my trouser pocket, withdrew a penny, and dropped it down the hole. I counted two whole seconds before I heard a clatter. It was deep, but not so very deep, and at length I reached the bottom. A good ways above me, I could still make out Ariel.

"Can you see me, Signorina?" I called.

"Just barely!" she called back. "What is it like down there?"

"Dark, and..." I looked around. "Er, dark. But there is a tunnel. Yes, I feel the draft. There is a tunnel, perhaps a passage to somewhere down here! Come down, Signorina!"

"Oh!" she moaned. "Do you think I ought to?"

"Why not? I am down here already! Come down! It is like Alice in Wonderland! I have a waistcoat and a pocket-watch, so that makes me the White Rabbit! Come down, Alice!"

That made her laugh, and despite her apparent nervousness, she consented to come down. I talked her through it with more "Alice" quotations.

"Ah, Alice!" I cried, watching her descend. "There is a mushroom down here that says EAT ME! What should I do?"

Her climbing was still slow and tense, but her voice was chirpy. "Well, Signor, the left side will make you bigger, and the right smaller! Mind you take little nibbles! If you become too big, you'll knock me right out of the park!"

That I would. Ah! Bad thought! Bad, bad, very bad thought!

"Ah, the Cheshire Cat!" I cried, forcing the bad thought away. "I see his grin in the darkness!"

"That's nothing to worry about! Just ignore him. Oh, I'm almost at the bottom now. I'm about to win the Caucus Race!"

And with a little hop and a squeaking of her leg brace, Ariel was off the ladder and shuffling beside me. It was very dark. The little bit of light coming from the top illuminated the ladder rungs, Ariel's hair, a bit of her cheek. No more.

"Ah, but no one wins the Caucus Race, Signorina. It's a big circle!"

There was a shuffling, and then I felt her press against me, the chuckle in her chest something I could feel. "On the contrary, dear Gangle," she corrected, ever the literary professor, "Everyone wins and recieves a piece of candy-a comfit to be precise-for their trouble."

"Ah."

So there we were, Ariel and I, together in the strange darkness of that secret passage, unseeing, but hearing and feeling more intensely than we ever had before. Opposite the ladder I could feel the windy emptiness of the passage. Where it led, how far beneath the earth it would lead you, where you would end up, I could not say, and frankly, the prospect of finding out was chilling. It felt like an unfriendly tunnel.

Ariel felt it too. "I want to know where it leads," she said, still against me. "But I'm too scared to find out. Maybe if we go in just a little bit?"

It was perfectly black down there, so black that I felt that if I were to reach out, I could grab the dark like a piece of black velvet. As such, I could barely make an accurate guess of how much distance I was covering as Ariel and I walked into the tunnel. At one point the ground seemed to slope and become more rocky. The air was colder, and smelled of thawing ice and ancient rock. There was no sound, scarcely even the feeling of circulating air; thus, despite the tunnel's generous size, it felt profoundly claustrophobic, like a great casket of earth. It felt as though it went on for a long time. I cautiously looked behind me. I could just barely see the rungs of the ladder.

"This place would be a lot less intimidating with a lamp," I mused aloud, and my voice echoed down the long, long passage. "As it is now, I don't think we should go any further without one, Signorina."

"Indeed," she agreed. "I don't like this place. Let's go back."

We turned around and went back, until the square light of day was above our heads once more. All we had to do was make the climb back up.

"It's like Heaven and Hell, this is," commented Ariel softly, looking from the light to the tunnel. "And here we are in the midst of it. A junction of sorts."

The strange setting and her dark painted eyes and lips aided in the illusion that she was some underworld sage of sorts, making a profound statement. I asked her what she meant.

"Well, to our left, on a dark downward slope, is Hell." She looked at it gravely, and then she looked up the ladder, and her face was illuminated by the sun. "And to our right, above us, is Heaven, a place we can reach only with careful effort. But how much better and easier to climb it is, when we have a Saviour!"

Here she looked at me. I did not know what to say.

"Erm, Gangle?" she said, picking at the lace on her sleeve. "May I ask you something?"

"What?"

She stopped picking, took a breath, and murmured, "Are you and that Maria lady going to get married?"

The question threw me completely off guard. How in the world did she...?

She seemed to sense my shock and hastened to explain, rather gloomily, "I was in my Aviary, and I saw you kiss her when your brother went for food."

I was beginning to think there was nothing I could keep secret from her. Standing there, I felt ashamed and torn, looking into her downcast eyes, and my previous night's petting-fest with Maria was suddenly contemptible to my senses. Despite everything that annoyed me about her, I was still in love-very much in love in Ariel.

"I am not sure if I want to marry her," I admitted. "It has been a very long time since we were last together. Circumstances have changed. We're different people. Ten years can do a lot to a person."

She blinked a bit and looked down, her demeanor subdued. "Oh."

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing...too wrong. It's just surprising. Er, not surprising that you would want to be married. or that it would happen, but..." she seemed to struggle for a moment, and than she blurted, "But if you got married, you'd have to move away, and...I like you."

In the darkness, what little I could see of her face was so pained that I hugged her, and inside of me there was a thrill of tenderness. She liked me, enough that she didn't want me to leave!

"I don't want you to ever leave me," she murmured into my jacket. "But I know that someday you must."

An emotional sort of determination flared in my heart. "I won't," I declared. "And even if I had to leave, I would visit you, Signorina. You are so precious to me. How could you think I'd go away and forget you altogether?"

She hugged me harder, and her voice grew even frailer. "I don't know. The thought just scares me."

If it had not been a warm, dreamy, rose-scented day in July, I would not have done what I did next. I probably shouldn't have done it, but what's done is done, and at the time I was too emotional to keep myself in check.

In that warm darkness, I smoothed her cheek, leaned in, and pressed my mouth against her own. For a truly wonderful couple of seconds, Ariel and I shared a sweet kiss, and then we parted. I couldn't believe myself. Judging by Ariel's face, she couldn't believe it either. She looked at me, almost dumbfounded, her cheeks red and a trembling hand moving to her mouth. I panicked.

"Ah, Signorina!" I cried, concocting a hasty lie. "I was...going to, ah, kiss your forehead...but I couldn't see very good in the dark, and I...ah...kissed you _there _instead. I'm sorry, very sorry..."

"N-No, no, don't apologize, it's quite f-fine," stammered Ariel in an unusually high pitch, and she felt her lips as though they'd been scorched. "Don't think anything of it at all. I'm not...offended, or anything, I actually..."

"You actually what?"

"Nothing." She turned to the ladder. "Let's go back up."

We did. As I climbed, Dr. Gangle and Mr. De Rossi started yammering, most excitedly:

_Very nice, pal! _(cheered De Rossi) _Very nice! Right on the lips! _

_Oh, you are unsatiable! _(mourned Gangle) _You've likely embarrassed her! What must she be thinking of you? _

_Thoughts of love, hopefully! _(said De Rossi smugly) _Once she gets a taste of Italy, she won't stand for an Opera Ghost! _

My heart pounded drunkenly with love, as though my blood had suddenly been replaced by wine. Ariel! On my lips! I licked them and tasted her lipstick. _Magnifica! _As I climbed towards the light, the whole world was a song, and the refrain was _Ariel, Ariel, Ariel! _I wanted her with a desire that almost made me sigh aloud. And then the light of day burned my eyes. I hauled myself out of the tunnel and onto the cool grass of the Ayrie's base.

Ariel was already out, on her feet, her cheeks pink and her mouth now devoid of lipstick. Now in the daylight, my embarrassment returned, but I could not resist it being intermingled with love, and when I approached my shy little virgin Signorina, my blood raced with lust.

She looked right into my eyes. She was blushing, but her face was calm, and her eyes were curious, sparkly, searching. Out of her pocket came a handkerchief, which she used to dab my lips.

"You've got...lipstick...on them," she whispered.

When she was through she handed me the hanky. It was crisp, white linen, bordered with scalloped lace, and in the midst of this perfect whiteness was the vivid red stain of her lipstick.

"I don't need it back," she said, and then she turned and hurried off to her Aviary, leaving me breathless, holding that stained hanky like a champion knight who had been given his maiden's colors. I brought it to my face and inhaled. It smelled just like her. Oh, Ariel! I watched her disappear around the corner of the funhouse and was filled with a fiery madness, the memory of her soft lips and innocent blush so strong that I could almost feel them again.

I was so in love that I didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack and a thunderous boom, followed by the sound of sizzling. The volcano that went off each day at three had just erupted. I turned around and looked at it. People laughed and pointed and how realistic it was, from the scorched, crumbly sides, to the glowing lava, to the lazy way it dribbled down the sides and solidified in little hot pools.

An erupting volcano is innocent enough, but it gave me an idea. I sighed. Of course, _that _was always an option.

)

(

)

Some time later, in my little room, I reclined back onto my pillow with great satisfaction, Ariel's hanky next to my head and a much less cherished one lying, defiled, on the floor. I lay for a moment in relative calm, and then I pointed a trembling finger at the calendar.

_The joke's on you, warm, dreamy, rose-scented July the first! _I told it mentally. _The day is nearly over, and I haven't fathered any illegitimate children! That means I win!_

And then the thought flashed across my mind like a banner being pulled by an aeroplane: _You still have to sit under the stars with her tonight. And she'll have had time to think that kiss over, bozo. _

Oof! My mind had a definite point there, but all at once I remembered the kiss. I closed my eyes. There we were in the darkness, hearts pounding. There was her soft little face, the delicious sensation of warm, wet lips meeting...

_Mamma mia! _ I groped around for another unloved hanky and let the fantasy unwind.

)

(

)

Night fell, and with the cool breeze came a calmness that effectively put a damper on my damn-near-uncontrollable lust. The sky slowly filled with stars. The park was emptied of its last few stragglers. The distant lights of Luna Park gleamed on the horizon like a city of fire. I was able to think rationally again. Unfortunately in my case, Rationally returned, bringing his good friends Guilt and Fear along for the ride. Also present were Dr. Gangle and Mr. De Rossi.

Well, (intoned Gangle gloomily) Here's where you face up to your actions. Ariel would scarcely be blamed if she were to feel nervous or upset about you kissig her.

She said she wasn't offended! (growled De Rossi) What more do you want?

Supposing she told her father...? (suggested Gangle, his imaginary eyebrows raised)

Only one way to find out, I told myself grimly as Fleck Manor's door came into sight. When I knocked, Alf yelled at me to come right in. The man was on the parlor couch, wrapped in that hideous throw, writing in his journal and nursing a cup of steaming tea.

"I may as well tell you immediately," he said, not looking up from his writing, "That Ariel is not here. She's in the Ayrie. Shouldn't be back until late."

"The Ayrie?" I spat. "What does Mr. Y want with her?"

I thought my tone was too bitter even while I was saying the words, and Alf seemed to feel it. He looked up from his writing, a mildly offended wrinkle in his brow.

"I did sort of spit that out, didn't I?" I hastened to apologize. "My apologies. I didn't intend to."

Still looking wary, Alf leaned heavily over and took a sealed envelope from the nearby lamp desk, which he extended to me.

"Mr. Y enjoyed her singing so much that he wishes to teach her that aria he wrote," he explained, and once I took the envelope he returned immediately to his writing. "She told me to give you this note."

Alf's manner made it clear that he didn't desire any further conversation, and so we exchanged gruff good evenings, and I left Fleck Manor with Signorina's note. It said:

_Gangle!_

_Mr. Y wants to teach me to sing; he just sent for me to come to the Ayrie. Sorry to leave you alone tonight, especially after we missed each other the previous night, but I can't very well refuse Mr. Y, can I? Wish me luck, for I get very intimidated at the thought of singing for a man with such musical standards as Mr. Y. _

_As ever, Ariel. _

_PS: And don't worry another moment about what happened in the tunnel. We all make silly mstakes. We'll just forget all about it. _

Perhaps it was only my state of mind, but something about the way she phrased that letter made me so angry that I chucked it right into a nearby trashcan and practically threw myself onto the bench. I tried to calm down by looking at the stars. In my peripheral vision, however, I couldn't help but notice the glowing eyes of the Ayrie. Tonight, unlike previous nights, Mr. Y (the Opera Ghost, I was convinced) would not be spending a sleepness night composing; he would be making music with Ariel, his secret admirer. Me? I'd be stewing on this bench.

_Fuck it,_ I said to myself savagely, and refused to do any such thing. Rather, I marched straight to bed and stewed there instead.

_**(Gangle stops here for now.) **_

Mr. Whittington's notebook was beginning to resemble a small dictionary, what with all the notes, but he thanked Mr. De Rossi and headed home with Rodger.

"Come in for some tea, Rodger?" he asked politely when they reached the door, but Rodger was not listening. He was pointing to a 1922 Ford Sedan, canary-yellow, that was parked on the curb.

"Say!" he cried. "That's Bernie's car. What's she doing down this way?"

Their questions were answered by the sudden opening of Mr. Whittington's door. There, beaming and radiant, was Bernice herself.

"Well, how d'ye do, Jay?" she gushed. "Rog told me ya had that Ariel lady livin' he-uh, and I thought I'd come see 'er! Why didn't ya tell me she was wearin' my old clothes?"

The men entered amid good-natured babbling of this sort, feeling jarred by Bernice's unexpected appearance. On the couch, looking faintly overwhelmed, was Miss Fleck, who shot Mr. Whittington a significant, pleading glance.

"So you've made Miss Fleck's aquaintance, Bernice?" said Mr. Whittington pleasantly, sitting beside her in response.

"Uh-huh!" Bernice patted Rodger on the back and sat with him at the table. "And she's so cute! Say, Miss Fleck, this he-uh is my boyfriend Rodger. You remembah him?"

"Indeed," replied Ariel. "Rodger Garland. Tried to get a story out of me once. The penalty? A rock to the right temple."

Rodger swallowed nervously, but Bernice took it all as a lark.

"Ha! Oh, I remember that. Yes, I do. I was mad about it, but Rog can be rather aggravating, can't he? Say, Jay, doesn't she have such swell hair? I wish I could take her to get a permanent wave put in it. It would look topping in such black hair as that. Not today, but how about soon? Hmm?"

"A permanent wave?" quavered Ariel cautiously.

"Well, it's not permanant forevah, but it would be so pretty. Her face and jaw have such gorgeous lines! It's all about lines anymore. Oh, please say yes, I'll pay for it all myself. And she could use some rouge and lipstick. And..."

And so it was the the afternoon was spent, not with tea, but with grand plans of makeovers a la Bernice.

**Notes From Authoress / What you Have To Look Forward To Next Week / CONTEST**

**1. The title of next week's installment is "One Armed Angel, Part 2". Just like in your favorite Victorian-era romantic sitcom, hunchbacked, underdog Alf can't get the girl (Polly) without first fufilling the conditions of her dad, who is kind of an ass. Our tattooed hero, aided by his other outcast friends, need money, and fast! How will they do it? **

**2. I had a nice Thanksgiving at my aunt's house. I got to look at family relics. One was a Victorian-era autograph album, kept by my great-great grandma in 1885. The other was my great (x5) grandpa's geography textbook, which he used at school in 1808. Reading it, I learned that New Jersey's population was about 12, 500 at the time. XD The only bad part of the night was when this little fucker dog bit me. It didn't break my skin or make me bleed, but still! The arrogance! **


	13. One Armed Angel, Part II

**NOTE: It's fluffy cuddly-coo-coo to the EXTREME in this here chapter, but it's high time for a heartwarming change of pace. **

Chapter Thirteen

One-Armed Angel, Part II

"Ariel dear, I know ladies who would just about die for black hair like yours. Mmm-hmm. Just about die."

It was mid-morning in Bernice's favorite salon, Millicent's, and Miss Millicent herself was taking an appreciative look at Miss Fleck's hair. Miss Fleck herself sat propped on a salon chair in front of the big mirror, and examined her own face where it gazed back at her, framed by all manner of glass bottles and comb cleaners and hair tonics.

Bernice's face intruded upon the glass as well. "That's what I said, Mill. Black hair! Black as ink!"

"Not all of it," countered Miss Fleck, bending and flipping up her roots. "Take a gander at that!"

For underneath, her hair was streaked with silver, the doing of malnutrition.

"Well! Can't say I'm not suprised. But don't worry. I've got plenty of black hair dye," said Millicent capably. "Easiest color on earth to do. After that, I'll put a nice wave in it for you. You'll be just delicious!"

Meanwhile, Mr. Whittington was reading more of Mr. Fleck's journal.

_**(Mr. Squelch journal starts here.)**_

I tried to begin this earlier, but right in the middle of the first sentence my "aura" of dizzy coldness gripped me, and before I knew it Ariel was telling me I'd had a seizure and herded me to bed. And dang it, I completely lost track of what I was trying to say in the first place. The seizure, as they usually do, wiped my memories out a decent ways. From this point on, I'm writing in sub-headings. That way I'll be able to pick up if I forget.

Flecks make a sensation at breakfast

The day after Polly left for Greece, my father thought it good to inform our fellow freaks of the challenge before us involving myself and my prospective bride as soon as possible. It sounded perfectly reasonable aloud, but as I tapped on my glass for attention at the next day's meal, seeing the eyes of the freakish assembly fix curiously upon me, I felt like the biggest ass who ever pulled on a pair of mens' underpants.

At last I got their full attention, and, with a stomach that felt laden with rocks, I stammered out my story, from the time Polly first came ambling into the restaurant, to the time we finished Treasure Island, to the times we went about to see the sights, and the confrontation with Polly's parents, the challenge, and all the way to the present moment. At my side, my father gave his grim-faced, serious nods of assurance.

The effect on the diners was comparable to stupefying gas. Food grew cold on the plates as they all stared at me.

"Al," sputtered Dog-Faced Derek. "You're pulling our legs."

I assured him I wasn't, and to prove it I pulled out something that Polly had given me the day before she left: a long, black lock of her hair, tied with a pink ribbon.

Little Mr. Geddes slapped his thigh. "Jim-in-ee crickets! A lock of hair to remember her by! What do you think of that!"

Laughs and gasps of amazement rippled all around as folks gathered around to see it.

"So what you're telling us," the snake charmer said, "Is that by this time next year you've got to essentially have an entire Catholic cathedral wedding financed, trimmings and trappings?"

"Down to the last speck of confetti," I assured him gloomily.

"We'll all help," promised 600-pound Eliza, her wobbling fat and shiny eyes making her look doubly sentimental. "As best we can. Oh, just think of it! Al getting married!"

And every red-blooded romantic woman at the table burst forth in breathy oaths and swore their allegiance to the "marvelous" cause, while the men pulled out pads and paper and embarked on a decidedly more financial course. As nervous as we were, my Dad and I got drawn into the excitement too.

"About how much is your estimate, Estevan?" Mr. Geddes asked my father. "Just a rough estimate."

Dad sucked in a gust of air, rolled his eyes, and ventured, "Considering we're also purchasing the bridal ensemble and the rings, I believe fifteen hundred dollars would be a modest guess."

The ladies stopped gabbing abruptly in the middle of a discussion about lace, and the men's moustaches twitched. That really sucked the wind out of a couple sails. Nowadays, fifteen hundred dollars is a lot of money. In 1883, it was even more. To top it all off, it was a modest guess. Who knew what they'd try to charge us for certain supplies? _(AUTHOR'S NOTE: $1,500 in 1883 would be roughly equivalent to $35,000 today_)

Mr. Geddes nodded slowly, but his eyes darted about in intense wonderment. Dog-Faced Derek looked like a nervous Yorkie.

"Well," sighed someone eventually, "Let's start brainstorming."

2. It's All Greek To Me

I had to get cracking on Condition One: Become a Greek Orthodox! All I knew about it was that it was Greek, and it was Orthodox, and the fact that there was a Greek Orthodox cathedral called St. Anastasia's in Brooklyn. Other than that, Alfred Fleck the Presbyterian didn't have the damndest scrap of a clue. I dragged myself into that church like the very prince of the asses. Compared with the majestically high ceilings, the icons, the gold, the splendor, and the general air of holiness and magnificence, I felt particularly defective, like a mistake, or a blot in God's big picture. That place, now that I think about it, is a lot like the Ayrie.

The robed priest was putting candles in order when I approached him and gave a polite little cough.

"Yes, sir? Do...?" He looked me up and down, and his bushy white brows furrowed in concern. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, yes," I quickly assured him. "I always crawl. That's how I was born." I extended my hand. "My name is Alfred Fleck. I live at Coney Island."

He knelt and shook hands. "Well, greetings to you, Mr. Fleck. I am Father Nicholas. Can I do anything for you?"

I decided that I liked Father Nicholas right away. True to his namesake, he reminded me of Santa Claus, with his snowy beard and ornate robes, and I guess he was very nearly as friendly, too. The sight of me didn't seem to disturb him. His eyes glimmered with an ancient, pious wisdom. I felt free to confess my situation.

"Ah," he said sagely. "You're marrying into the Church. Very well, very well. Is the young lady a member of this church?"

"No, sir. She's actually not in the United States right now. Er, I don't know if you've ever heard of the Flying Papakonstantinau family from Greece..."

His face immediately illuminated in recognition. "I certainly do!" he cried. "They came to Mass here every Sunday while they were here. Delightful people, and their daughter Apollonia is a sweetheart." He lowered his voice, a sad tenderness entering his tone. "From what they told me, the poor dear's always been feeble-minded. But how she loves to talk, once you get her going! Sometimes she pointed to the designs on my stole and went on about how it reminded her of this "Alfie" character..."

He must have caught the look on my face, for at that moment he seemed to grasp the whole situation.

"Why, young man!" he exclaimed. "Are you that "Alfie"? Why, of course you are! Your name is Alfred, and what a decorated fellow you are!" Then he was serious. "You're engaged to Miss Papakonstantinau? Her parents gave absolutely no indication of any such arrangement."

And so I had to explain the rest of my ridiculous tale, after which Father Nicholas sat back, folded his hands on his bejeweled lap, and took it in.

"Well, son," he eventually said. "This is unlike anything I've ever heard, and I can tell you right away that I have a few concerns."

I knew this would happen. I nodded glumly and consented for him to continue. He touched upon a variety of very valid points, from the short length of time I'd known Polly to the apparent reluctance on the side of her parents. But his biggest concern involved Polly's age and mental state.

"At the moment, Miss Papakonstantinau is sixteen," he said. "By this time next year, she will be seventeen. She is well within legal marrying age in New York, but I am more concerned about her state of mind. She's not severely feeble-minded; indeed, she could chat on and on about all sorts of subjects, but I'm not convinced that she quite understands everything that marriage entails, and how very dramatically her life would change."

I nodded again, more glumy than ever, for now he'd touched upon something that I myself had considered.

"I'm not trying to knock you down, son," he said quickly, seeming to sense my mood. "Truly, I'm not. But marriage is a very serious and holy thing, not to be entered into lightly. She must understand what she is promising to you. I fear she may be only seeing the lovely, romantic wedding half of marriage, and not everything else. She is quite childlike."

I understood. Father Nicholas then rose, and asked me to follow him to his office. I crawled solemnly through the bowels of that palace-like church, arrived in a book-lined, musty little room, and hauled myself onto a chair. Thus established, we had a serious discussion about marriage, Polly, myself, and my acceptance into St. Anastasia's congregation. He signed me up for their confirmation classes, and our meeting ended amiably.

"Alright, Mr. Fleck. Provided everything goes smoothly, and there's no reason why it shouldn't, you will become an official member of our church on Easter."

I left the place with a packet of papers and the satisfaction of knowing that I was on track to knock out at least one condition.

I also left with a little something the church provided: a Greek/English newspaper, so that the congregation (many of whom came from Greece) could see how things were in their native land. I half hoped to see Polly inside.

3. All The World's A Stage

When I arrived home to Coney, I expected that some of the intial excitement over my potential engagement would have died down, but it was only getting started. In fact, while I was gone, two committees had been formed, with my father and myself installed as the unofficial chairmen. I came across the combined meeting as I entered the dining area.

"How did the church thing work out, son?" inquired Dad pleasantly, his wrinkles defying gravity to form a happy smile. "I declare we have a whole system worked out here! Two committees! One for the gentlemen and one for the ladies."

Why the committees were gender-segregated has never been satisfactorily explained to me, but no matter. The men, led by Dog-Faced Derek, formed the "Money And Necessities" Committee (M.A.N. for short), and the ladies, led by Sword-Swallowing Selma, formed the "Womans' Organzation for Mr. Alf's Nuptials" (W.O.M.A.N. for short). While I had been gone that afternoon, both parties had been feverishly concocting plans.

"Picture it with me, Al," pitched Dog-Faced Derek, throwing an arm around my neck and extending his other into the horizon. "Your name in lights."

I asked him what the dickens he was talking about.

"A play, Al!" he cried. "A fundraising play! It's one thing to simply ask for donations, but it's quite another to do so with a song and dance!"

"A song and dance!" I cried back. I was one for new ideas, but this was unreasonable."And how do you propose I dance? I can barely move!"

"It's just an expression, Al, don't split your drawers. What I really had in mind was a heartwarming romantic play, based on the real-life drama of you and Polly! Then at the end, we ask for donations!"

"I came up with the idea," one of the ladies giggled. "Isn't it just great? People can feel like they have a real hand in a true romance!"

"Suppose they find the notion of a rich girl marrying a freak distasteful?" I felt compelled to add. "It's a good, reasonable idea to us, but to the people who come to see us?"

Derek had an answer to that, too. "We'll make it so damn plucky and cute that they'll love it. C'mon, Al, take a chance. What if Shakespeare didn't write Romeo and Juliet because he thought folks would find goofy love-at-first-sight distasteful?"

Before I could say anything, someone else chimed in. "Mr. Astley would likely love all the free publicity."

"Who's going to play Polly?" a lady asked irrelevantly. "Which of us looks most like her, Al?"

"The man hasn't even agreed! Give him a chance to..."

"I think she does, with her curly dark hair, but they'll never know anyway."

"Won't this be great, Al?"

I didn't have much choice but to agree. "Alright! I'm in!" I practically had to roar. "You hear me? I'm in!"

4. Missing Polly

My consent thus given to produce an autobiographical romance play, the two committees began banging away at the script. M.A.N. insisted that "time was of the essence", and that the quicker a script could be made, the sooner we could begin reaping profit, whereas W.O.M.A.N. stressed "quality, not quantity", and that a quality script would make up for lost time with the sheer spectacle of the well-organized show. M.A.N. heaved a sigh and said that people scarcely went to a freakshow to see Shakespeare, and W.O.M.A.N. moaned that if it were up to M.A.N., the show would be hardly more than a popsicle puppet show.

At age seventy-five, Dad couldn't tolerate the arguing and retired to bed early. I gave the quarrelling committees a bedtime salute (they cheerily chirped goodnight and then immediately kept roaring) and retired as well. I had religious studying to do. After I made sure that Dad was settled, I went into the parlor, sat on the couch, and pulled out the papers Father Nicholas had given me to study.

As I looked at the papers and prayers, I remembered Polly's little platitudes about God: the ripping off of her arm, the designs on my face, the tenderness in her eyes whenever Jesus came into the conversation.

"Alfie!" she'd bubbled one night. "I don't think I ever told you about, about, about how God's going to make up for ripping my arm."

"I don't think you have, Polly," I replied.

"Well, then I'll say how." She sat up and wiggled her stump. "When I die, He's going to give me my arm back." Then she leaned forward, and whispered, for this was best of all, "And, and, and He's going to make me not be an imbecile anymore. And then, Alfie, I'm going to read books to you."

Back in the present, I suddenly realized how badly I missed Polly. Up until that moment, I hadn't had the time to miss her, what with all the religious studies and financial pondering, but now, sitting in the dark, the pain gripped me like a vice. I knew I had to keep studying, but I couldn't. I slumped over on the couch. I didn't know whether to cry or yell, and ultimately did neither. This year of separation was going to hurt something awful.

I was sorely tempted to engage in my deepest, darkest, most secret behavior, something I had done since I was an adolescent to handle pain or intense anger. I would take a knife to some unseen part of me, like an ankle or an elbow, and make a long, non-lethal slice in my flesh, for the purpose of sitting back and watching my blood flow. It was very bad, but over the years it became a sick sort of security blanket.

Tonight, however, I resisted.

"I love you, Polly," I told the darkness. I wished she could hear. "I love you."

5. Show Business

I have no desire to recall the interminable debates and tantrums that preceded the completion of our script, so I won't bother writing on it. I do, however, enjoy remembering the comedy involved in its early stages, particularly casting and our first read-through. M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. finally compromised on a script (although some folks were no longer on speaking terms) and began the task of casting.

The title of the play was "Beauty and the Freak". The blow to my self-esteem notwithstanding, it was really a decent little script, designed to be performed with little scenery and a few props. To set the scene for the audience, Derek informed me -and I am not joking - that he had written a "Greek chorus" into the show.

"It's perfect, Al!" he gushed. "Polly's Greek, so there's your social context, plus it reduces the need for scenery. To top it all off, the costumes couldn't be cheaper! All you need are branches and bedsheets!"

And at that precise moment, the freakish "Greek Chorus" strolled in, modelling their makeshift togas. They even had fake harps. One had an old banjo.

"Swell, ain't it? Anyway, here's your script, Al. Better start studying!"

The story behind the play, of course, was true, and...well, I guess I'm better off just writing about how the first show went, some time later.

6. Show Time

In the main room of "Astley's Astonishments", chairs were set up in a horseshoe formation around the performance area, which was essentially a big canvas backdrop of Coney by the sea. Mr. Astley delightedly charged everyone an extra nickel and showed people to their seats. Behind the canvas, I mentally rehearsed my monologues once last time, Dad got comfortable on his chair, and Dog-Faced Derek strolled out to address the crowd. He had slicked his facial hair into a poodle-esque look, just for the occasion.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced. "Mr. Astley and his freaks are pleased to present 'Beauty and the Freak'!"

The ladies and gentlemen politely applauded and then chuckled as the admittedly goofy-looking Greek Chorus took the stage, strummed their fake instruments, and sang:

_Coney Isle, glistening and glimmering!_

_Rising bright, drenched in light!_

_See it smile, beckoning and shimmering!_

_All agleam, like a dream! _

At this point, "Apollo" and "Frances" came onstage with suitcases, followed by the horrifying nightmare version of "Polly", played by the contortionist, Ethel Harris. Her hair was big and frizzy, her eyelids were blue, her mouth was pink, and to imitate Polly's little stump, she had tucked her arm back into her sleeve and wrapped it with linen. If the real Polly had looked anything like that, our relationship would have ended shortly after our meeting in the restaurant, away from which I would have run like a tattooed gazelle, shrieking.

"Ah, mama, what a crowd! It's like the Olympics!" Ethel declared in a mildly offensive imitation of Polly's voice, wagging her "stump", and then the Papakonstantinau family got ready for a "performance". Of course, nobody could do real acrobatics, so the story was altered to make Polly a contortionist, like Ethel herself.

Then I took the stage and sat in the fake audience to watch "Polly".I had my very first monologue, which, frankly, read like a paid public service announcement about the sad life of freaks, but I did read it with conviction. Then "Polly" did her contortions, which greatly entertained the crowd. After that, I had another monologue that was not unlike Romeo's spiel about Juliet. I blathered on about "Polly" and my newfound love for her, but mourned "the class divide" that "hopelessly destroyed my dreams of romance."

Then our meeting in the restaurant. As I read Treasure Island, "Polly" watched from a distance and had a rather horrendously-written romantic monologue of her own. If I took a sip of whisky every time I wanted to cringe, I'd be reduced to a cackling drunk, taking a piss on the Ferris wheel and singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home". Anywho, then came the "meeting", which involved a lot of love-sick staring. We both sang a little and promised to meet again in secret tomorrow.

The Greek Chorus sang again:

_Love's not always beautiful_

_Not at the start..._

_But open your arms, and close your eyes tight!_

_Look with your heart, and when it finds love_

_Your heart will be right!_

"Polly" and I went on a number of little fictional adventures, eating ice-cream, going through tunnels of love, and even doing some concealed, strongly implied petting. But there was this dreadful, vulgar line meant to get laughs that I had to do, because Derek insisted that "sex sells", and I can't even believe I said it. It was completely unreasonable.

"Oh, Polly," I said. "After I got a load of how far you can put your legs over your head, I knew you were the woman for me!"

There was a loud, distinctly masculine roar of laughter from the crowd. I don't believe the women laughed at all for the whole rest of the play.

Then, after a backdrop of the sea was hung up, I had to propose marriage to "Polly". In real life, I'd had a seizure and all that sort of nonsense, but there was no way I was going to fake a fit in front of a crowd.

"Oh, Alfie!" wheezed 'Polly'. "I love you more than olives and the Olympics combined! You may have the body of Hephaestus, but the heart of Zeus! Of course I'll marry you! Just let me ask my parents!"

"Apollo" and "Frances" took the stage shortly after, in high, overblown fury that nevertheless was reasonably accurate.

"If you want to marry Polly," boomed the father, "You must fufill all of my conditions!"

And from his pocket he unfurled a parchment scroll, on which the conditions had been painted in Gothic calligraphy, for drama. After reading them aloud, he handed them to me, grabbed Polly (who comically resisted) and left, saying that he'd be back next year to see how I'd succeeded.

The Greek Chorus sang:

_And so you see, the game is on!_

_And we will see, who wins out!_

_He who wins, wins it all!_

_Devil take the hindmost! _

And so the play ended, to a polite spattering of applause, and then Dog-Faced Derek made the announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, the play you have just seen is based on a true story. Mr. Fleck here-" Here he gestured to me-"Is in love with a girl like Polly, but unfortunately, her Dad's got conditions he wants him to fufill. One of the most pressing is money. He needs fifteen hundred dollars!"

There was a sympathetic sighing all around, mixed with suspicious sounds and shifty eyes.

"If you please," Derek said sweetly, "A monetary donation would be deeply appreciated."

The ladies unanimously reached for their husband's wallets, while the fellows' moustaches twitched and folks muttered that "this wasn't what they'd been expecting", but I saw a lot of bills and coins going into the tin can Derek brought around. After we gave Mr. Astley his cut of it, we counted.

"Oh!" cried Eliza. "Ten dollars!"

That's a great start!"

"Ha! This was all worth it!"

"We only have to do this 150 more times, and we'll have all the money we need!"

7. Other Schemes

Of course, we could hardly expect ten dollars for every performance, so other schemes were set up by M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. The men started a campaign of simply asking for the necessary funds, and then decided to make a pact among themselves to give a certain amount of money a month to the cause. The ladies, ever fond of a chance to crack out beloved recipes, held little bake sales whenever they could. By December, we had 700 dollars, about half of what we needed, and if things kept up, we had a good chance of reaching our goal!

But then came the terrible blow.

8. A Terrible Blow

The terrible blow came after one of my weekly sessions with Father Nicholas. Like I usually did, I took one of the Greek/English newpapers on my way out and brought it home. I made a cup of tea, some toast, and sat down at the table with Dad. I scanned it, looking for amusing news. Greek politics bored me, so I headed over to "Society".

"Anything interesting, son?" asked Dad.

"Not particularly."

Under "Society", there were things like engagement announcements and that sort of thing, telling of debutantes and weddings and girly gossip, and I was just about getting ready to shut the paper and eat my toast when the phrase _Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau _leapt up at me. I thought I was going mad, but I examined it again. Yes, that was her name! I was thrilled. It was like an unexpected postcard. What was my darling up to that would merit a mention in the "Society" section?

I read it. This is what it said:

_Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau, 17, daughter of Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau of "The Flying Papakonstantiau" fame, has been seen in the company of renowned polo champion, Hieremias Dukakis, all throughout the fall and several times this winter. She has accompanied him to several games, and both have made visits to the others' family home. Friends of Dukakis admit that he has deep affection for her which is mutual, and it is expected that an engagement announcement will be made sometime in the spring. _

Every trace of joy was sucked out of my soul. I felt like I was being torn in pieces. What did it say? I looked at it again, and again, wildly, but the story never changed. There they were, the most hateful, horrible words ever printed on paper. _Apollonia Papakonstantinau. Polo champion. Deep affection. Mutual. Engagement announcement. _

She promised me she'd never forget me, but poor stupid Polly had been tricked, almost certainly with the help of her parents. Once home in sunny Greece, among all the eligible, handsome, non-deformed young sports champions...

"Al, what's wrong?" cried Dad, his old unfocused eyes widening at the sight of me. "Are you sick? What's wrong, boy?"

I creased the newspaper and slapped it in front of him.

"Al!" cried Dad again.

Silently, I crawled out of the ktitchen, into my room, up onto my bed, and put my head on my pillow. I felt like there was a plug in my throat that wouldn't let me cry, but my eyes burned and overflowed, flowing straight down my nose and wetting the pillowcase, and it kept coming and coming. I had never been so hurt in all my life. I felt as though I would go on weeping forever, until I had no more tears, and then I would weep out all my lifeblood. I wanted to die.

I heard Dad crinkling the paper as he picked it up, heard a sharp intake of breath, and then he made a loud cry of indignation and disbelief. I wept on as I heard him rise slowly to his feet. His tottering footsteps got closer, the door creaked, and all at once I felt his trembly old hands on my back.

"I just read it," he said falteringly, "And, Al, I...don't even know what to say."

The choke in my throat made it impossible to respond. Everything we'd ever done, all the money we'd raised, useless!

"I'm sorry, son. I'm just so terribly sorry about all this."

And so Dad wept with me until it was time for dinner. He then dried his weathered old face, gave me a final back rub, told me he loved me, said he would tell the others, and promised to bring me back dinner. I didn't even respond to him. I just sort of lay there, too tormented to feel anything but pain, and after I heard the door shut behind him the temptation overpowered me. Vivid little streaks of red scattered around my ankles as I wildly tore my flesh with the sharp tip of a paring knife, vivid little stings of pain, and then the blood flowed. I lay back onto my pillow and watched the outcome of my self-hatred oozing out onto a stray piece of paper.

I was not willing to blame Polly, so I laid it squarely upon myself, and punished myself accordingly.

9. A Use For The Money

My fellow freaks were absolutely devastated by the news. The ladies wept, the men jumped up, shouting oaths and indignant curses, and even Mr. Astley seemed saddened.

"Everything we ever did - a waste!" cried Dog-Faced Derek, his face like an angry wolf.

"It's just not fair!" wept Eliza. "Oh, it's not fair at all! Poor Al!"

"Poor Al indeed! What a way to find out! In the dang paper!"

Over the next few weeks, they tried their best to cheer me up, really they did, but I was in no state to be cheered. The world to me had lost all of its beauty. Even when everyone unanimously decided to give me all the money we'd raised, I still could not find it within myself to be happy. In fact, I didn't even want the money. To me, it was a painful reminder of what I had lost, like looking at a cradle meant for a baby who had died. I wanted it gone.

I still went to see Father Nicholas, who comforted me for the loss of Polly and still offered me the opportunity to join his church, be a friend, that sort of thing. He had been so kind to me that I decided to still learn lessons from him, finish the course, even though the desire was no longer alive.

On the way back from the church, I passed a sad young man. He wore a shabby suit, an air of hopelessness, and sat, slumped, on a bench, watching the birds eating crumbs on the sidewalk. I never talked to strangers, but I felt as though I had to talk to this man. He was sad, like me.

"Hello," I greeted nervously. "Are you feeling alright?"

He was initially surprised by my strange appearance, but his sadness prevented him from becoming overly so. In the voice of the truly downtrodden, he sighed and said, "It seems to me that the whole world runs on money." He looked at me, and then back at the birds. "I've been working on this project for so long, and I can't seem to find enough money to push it forward. You ever feel that way?"

I nodded seriously, and pulled out my checkbook. I knew what I had to do.

"What are you doing?" asked the man, puzzled.

"Helping you," I replied, and handed him a check for seven hundred dollars. He didn't look at it immediately, and instead stared at me. I began to crawl away.

After I'd gone a little distance, I heard him jump up and cry, "Sir! Is this a joke?"

"No," I replied, not looking at him. "That money was to finance my wedding, but the woman has left me for another man. You take it now."

"Seven hundred dollars! Why, I can't...I don't see..."

I kept crawling. "I don't need it and I don't want it. Take it."

"But, but, sir!"

"Take it."

After a few disbelieving moments of silence, the man cried, with tears in his voice, "Oh, I _do _thank you, sir! Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No," I said, "Except spend it wisely."

"You have my oath! Oh, sir, please allow me to..."

"Just go. Forget me. Take the money and do what you will."

The man tried to take me to dinner, and bestow all sorts of favors on me, but at last he gave up. But I'll never forget what he said before he departed.

"Sir," he declared. "In a world of thieves and cowards, you are the only stand-up guy I've ever met. A stand-up guy! May you find a worthier woman!"

My heart was warmed to help this fellow, but the grief of my lost love didn't go away. And not a week later, in the midst of a particularly nasty cold snap, I became very ill.

10. The Letter

It started as a cold and progressed rapidly into a dangerous fever. I was never one to get sick, but my grief, combined with my physical deformities, caused me to become very ill, very fast. During my confinement to bed, I had two large seizures and became too weak to move. My zest for life was gone. Call it weak and pathetic, but I gave up. What did I have to live for? Another thirty or so loveless years in a freakshow? Better to die.

In hindsight, I'm ashamed of how severely I frightened my friends and family, but at the time I was not thinking reasonably. I lay, wrapped in quilts, accepting tea and broth with no real enthusiasm, spending what felt like days sleeping and waking up and having cold sweats and dying. It all started blurring into a single endless trial.

Fearing the worst, Dad telegraphed for Edgar to come from Albany to see me. He came, along with aunt Fanny. I don't remember much of their visit. I just know they came. A lot of folks visited me, bringing food and treats. M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. came on a daily basis, mourning my loss of Polly and weeping over me, for the doctor said that my illness was becoming very bad. Treatments were proving ineffective. It wasn't a cold that was killing me. I was dying of love.

One bleak morning, I awoke to a gray, cold sky. My mouth was dry. My eyes were bleary. Life was appalling to me. From where I lay, wrapped in the same old quilt I'd been sweating and drooling on for who knows how long, I looked up into that vast nothingness and asked God for death. I hadn't done that yet. A tear escaped me, and I made my request. Take me now, please!

At that moment, Dad ambled in. I heard the tapping of his cane.

"Al, can you hear me?" he asked feebly, circles under his eyes. "There's a letter for you here. I don't know from who."

There was no return address, but many stamps, as though the letter had come from afar. Some of the postal markings on it were in Greek. My heart stopped. I took it, opened it, and looked at it.

The handwriting wasn't very good, and the spelling and syntax were no good either. It said:

_Alfie! _

_I maniged to find a person who kin write Inglish, becus I cant write as you know alridy. She wont tell on me, so I can send you this seecrit letter. Do not do NOT write back! This must be seecrit or dad will know and it will be rooined. so do NOT do it. Well Alfie my dad keeps sending me to meet all kinds of fellows, there was one who was a polo champeen. We went out together alot and people thot we were engaged, but i did not let him. And then I met a book-riter and I told him he reminded me of Alfie. They were nice but they were not you. and I said that. _

_Dad was mad with me and found more fellows. there was a docter and one who owned a museem. I liked them but they didnt like to reed books and talked to me like I was a imbecile. I hate that. So I didnt want to see them anymore. Dad was madder and said i hadnt any brains at all if i was to turn down men so rich. That made me cry alot. _

_He ast me why I still lovd you after all this. I said that Alfie loves me and even if he looks like a bear and his brane hurts him hes nice. Just like God lovd me and took my arm He must have realy lovd Alfie too. That made dad think. Than I said that Alfie and me are like baklava and honey. and i said that I would marry him no matter what because we had such a big love for each other. i think he unnerstands a little now. _

_So like i said Alfie DONT write back because this is a seecrit. But Alfie I love you very very much and i wish I could kiss you. We will soon i hop. Then we will be marryed and then have babys. but we must wait til then. I love you Alfie so dont give up. I will never love anyone but you. _

_Polly. _

_writ December 23 1883_

It was as though the words were breathing life into me, lifting me up from my sheets; indeed, I was sitting up in bed, ecstacy welling in my heart.

"Al!" cried Dad. "Who's it from? What does it say?"

I looked at him, tears in my eyes, and said only four words. "She still loves me."

He immediately knew what I meant. He read the letter himself, cheered, and hauled me into his arms. Polly didn't love a polo champion, or a doctor, or an author, or a museum curator. She loved me!

I think it goes without saying that my health improved substantially. Within a week, I was able to leave my bed and eat with the others, and not long after that I was okay again. And to think I had asked God for death! Thank Heaven that our foolish mortal wishes are not indulged!

11. One Good Turn Deserves Another

Of course, there was a major problem: I had given all the wedding funds to that sad young man, thinking I'd never need it. Boy, did I feel like an ass admitting that to everyone.

Dad nodded his head gravely. "There's one thing we can still do," he said. "Or, rather, what I can do. I can always take out a loan for fifteen hundred dollars..."

"Dad!" I cried in distress. He'd be in debt for the rest of his life if he did that!

"Don't 'Dad' me," he retorted. "Didn't I say I'd make this happen one way or the other?"

"But even the interest alone would be staggering...!"

He could not be persuaded otherwise. He was going to take out that loan, the very next day if he could, and I kicked myself all the way home. Oh, why had I been such a fool?

Now, if you don't believe in God, or the fact that 'one good turn deserves another', this will do it...

We received a letter that very evening. It was a fine, well-crafted, well-written letter, and this is what it said:

_Dear Mr. Fleck,_

_I am the man to whom you so generously gave seven hundred dollars some time ago. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Kearny, an avid researcher of North American birds, and with the money you gave me I was able to finance the publication of my very first bird-watching guidebook, entitled "Birds", and it has been a smashing success; I have made a respectable amount of money, and have even been given a significant advance for the publication of a sequel, entitled "More Birds". I owe my success to you, as well as my very sincerest thanks, but of course that is not enough. You did not tell me who you were, but your name and mailing address was on the check you gave me, and that is how I knew where to send this letter and the enclosed check. _

_Thanking you once again, very sincerely, _

_Thomas Kearny. _

Dad and I said the same thing together at once: "Enclosed check?"

We dug it out. I believe everyone within a three-mile radius heard me scream. It was a check for three thousand dollars, double what we needed for the wedding! That evening, the whole lot of us, freaks, non-freaks, and occasional terrified bystanders had a celebration, for the next day we had tremendous shopping to do!

12. The Glorious Proposal

We had done it. After I became a confirmed Greek Orthodox that Easter, we had fufilled all of Apollo's conditions, and according to a curt telegram sent by the man himself, he and his wife (and Polly!) were returning in a week. I can't write anything about that week, because I don't remember, but I'll always remember the heart-pounding anticipation, the flurry of excitement, the marvelous way all of my freak family worked together to arrange the big Fleck Greek wedding. It was just wonderful. I was half-mad with joy at the prospect of seeing my precious Polly again. I could scarcely wait.

At last the day came. Dad, myself, and the whole freak gang waited at the docks in our best clothes. I held the ring-the diamond wedding ring-in my trembling hand. When the ship at last came into sight, I almost fainted of nerves. It seemed it would never dock. At last, of course, it did, and the moment the gangplank was lowered I grabbed Dad's hand. My freak family giggled and patted my back. I scanned the crowd wildly for Polly.

Half an eternity passed, and then, suddenly, I heard the most beautiful sound on earth.

"Alfie!"

And there she was in the crowd, in a dress of pink challis, her little stump just the way I remembered, her hair topped by a little crown of white straw and ribbons, her sweet eyes widening and watering as they met mine.

I couldn't move, but she came running and crying to me, and all at once she was in my arms again. I smelled her beautiful smell and was so overcome with love that I cried too. The world around the two of us fell away.

"A-Alfie," she quavered. "I thought about you all the time, and, and, and I...love you!"

My Adam's apple felt like it was going to punch right out of my throat. "I love you too, beautiful, so much that I...here, let me show you."

I wiped my eyes and pulled out the diamond ring. Polly's eyes were perfectly round when she saw it.

"Alfie," she breathed. "Is that mine?"

"It will be," I said, poking her nose. "But I've got to propose to you first."

My Dad, the fellows, and every lady worth her buttons and bows craned their necks and gathered around. This moment was what those two relentless committees had been working for all those months, all those long nights and big debates.

"Polly," I asked, taking the only hand she had. "Will you marry me?"

She bounced, and her smile almost cracked her face in half. "Yes, Alfie! Yes, yes!"

I put the ring on her finger, took her in my arms, and kissed her as 600-pound Eliza wailed and everyone else applauded and sniffled. My joy was complete.

If you're wondering where Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau were during this emotional reunion and proposal, here's the explanation. See, Polly was so excited to see me that she actually ran away from them, jumped a deck, scooted down a few levels, and got off the boat almost first, leaving her parents to scramble about searching for her, which took them a while. In fact, we had finished admiring each other's rings and crying for the second time, and had even got into discussing wedding plans when, at last, the sweaty and irritated parents came staggering into sight.

"Ooh, Daddy!" screamed Polly, holding up her hand, ignorant of any wrongdoing. "Alfie got me a ring, and, and, and a dress, and a whole wedding celebration!"

And there was nothing the man could say. My father was pleased to tell him of just how much money we'd raised, and how excited our Greek Orthodox church family (as well as other families) was to see the big wedding. We took him back to Coney and showed him the dresses, the finery, everything we'd bought. We told him all the ways we'd made the money, all the ways people had pitched in. And I told him how lucky I was to be engaged to the most wonderful woman on earth.

At last the man spoke, as though deeply dazed, looking at his wife. "It's...amazing, actually, how... I mean, I didn't actually think this would ever..."

"Daddy," Polly said, taking his hand, in a voice that could melt any Daddy's heart. "I'm the happiest girl _ever." _

It worked. As much as I hadn't liked Apollo before, the emotion that tugged on hs mouth made me half forgive him. Frances hugged Polly to her and kissed her cheek.

"And that's what I've always wanted for you, precious," the mother told her quietly.

13. Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Fleck

A week later, St. Anastasia's palatial interior was made even more beautiful by huge sprays of white roses and ribbons. One half of the pews were filled with mildly confused Papakonstantinau relatives, and the other half was filled with thrilled freaks from all the neighboring freakshows, donning their best clothes. In the front sat my ancient father in an equally ancient old suit that he had meticulously dusted and ironed, and beside him sat Apollo and Frances, the former in a stiff, impeccable emsemble, and the latter fashionably attired in velvet, with real lilies pinned on her bosom. Thomas Kearny was there too, by the way. The man financed the wedding, after all, and I do believe that merits at least an invitation.

Me? I was at the front, in a chair because of my hunch, in the nicest suit I'd ever wear in my life. It was Polly, however, who was the real center of attention. I can see her in my mind. It seemed almost as though she'd been clothed in light and crystalline designs of frost and flowers. She held a luxurious bunch of white roses. From her toes to her fingertips (and her little stump) and all the way up her throat she was covered in whiteness and lace, and her peach-and-cream face was obscured by a misty veil. A more beautiful sight had never been seen.

Father Nicholas cleared his throat and solemnly intoned, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God – and in the face of this company – to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

On and on we went through the ceremony of that great and awesome covenant that was mystically making Polly and I one. I promised to cherish and continually bestow upon Polly my heart's deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keeping myself only unto her as long as we both would live, and she promised the same to me.

Father Nicholas put a crown of olive leaves on Polly's head, and then mine.

"And so, by the power vested in me by the State of New York and Almighty God, I now pronounce you man and wife...and may your days be good and long upon the earth." And then to me..."You may now kiss the bride."

I didn't need telling twice! I gave my wife a hearty smooch, and then Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Fleck departed down the aisle, the latter on the former's back, to a great cheering, organ playing, rice-throwing, and plate-breaking. (It's a Greek thing) Away we went as if in a dream to our big after-wedding party! Cake, music, happiness, and a signed copy of Thomas Kearny's "Birds". It was almost too much. It was there that M.A.N. officially forgave W.O.M.A.N., and vise-versa, and everyone was just giddy, myself and Polly the giddiest of them all.

It wasn't until the revellers were gone, the confetti swept up, and a quietness reigned wih the stars that it all became real to me. I was on my way back to Fleck Manor, with my new wife on my back. My wife! I was a husband!

"Apollonia Fleck," chirped Polly to herself, thrilled with her new name. "Polly Fleck. Polly Fleck."

We crossed the threshold into that old, familiar home, and it wasn't long before I discovered that some cheeky church people had taken it upon themselves to cover the bridal bed with flower petals. (Dad, by the way, was not home. He made a point to inform me, with a wink, that he'd be bunking with the neighbors that night so my bride and I could have plenty of - wink wink - privacy.)

"Ooh, Alfie!" cooed my dear, hopping on the mattress with an energy that sent the petals flying. "This is our home now, and, and, and this is our bed, and I..._love you!" _

14. Mrs. Fleck Makes Mr. Fleck A Very Happy Man

(I debated within myself whether writing about this was really necessary, but since no one's ever going to read this journal but me, what have I to be squeamish about? This is a very precious memory. I want to remember it.)

You'd think marrying a gorgeous Greek girl would do wonders for my self-esteem, and it did, but once Polly was quite through amusing herself with the petals, she brushed them away and looked sweetly into my eyes with a _"Take me, Alfie!" _expression, and I felt downright scared.

It wasn't that the idea of having sex with Polly was intimidating or anything, (banish that thought) but "No Self-Esteem" Al recognized the fact that one of us was very attractive, and the other one looked like a reject from a graduate-school production of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame". My whole life in a freakshow had been one, giant, perpetual rejection, and in a way I had actually come to believe that it had a real basis in reality. So this whole up-close-and-personal thing called sex scared me, even though I, being a young man, wanted it badly.

"Alfie dear," whispered Polly cutely as though telling a secret to a lady-friend. "You have to close your eyes."

I closed them, and presently heard the delicious ruffling and swishing of stockings coming down and skirts being pulled off and the thud of a wedding dress being tossed onto the floor, and at length it stopped. I heard the relative silence of an unclothed body reclining slowly onto the pillow beside me. My heart pounded.

"Okay, Alfie. You can look now."

I looked. Holy mackerel.

I must have looked as excited as I felt, for Polly blushed and smiled proudly, wiggling her now-naked little stump.

"Now it's your turn," she said, giggling in anticipation. "I'll close my eyes."

"No Self-Esteem" Al dimmed the gas lamp. Hopefully that would soften the blow. It was with an intense sensation of lust and fear that I disrobed, and at last it was time for Polly's appraisal.

I was as ready as I was ever going to be. "You can open your eyes, darling." I croaked.

She did. It was like two brown spotlights were shining on my pathetic nakedness. They started on my face, then my chest, and then they darted swiftly down south and stayed there, becoming as wide as dinner plates, as her cheeks flushed pink.

"Ooh, Alfie!" she cried in obvious approval, and then she murmured, earnestly, "It's awfully big."

(Which, funnily enough, made it bigger.)

Out of everything she could have said, she said that. Years and years later, I remember and laugh my tattoos off, but at the time I was so relieved by her wholesale acceptance of what I deemed to be an ugly, scarred, malformed body that I could've wept. This unconditional love was so sublime; what had I ever done to deserve it? But I didn't weep. Instead, I joyfully tossed up the blanket, went under it with Polly, and, as I have said in the sub-heading, Mrs. Fleck made Mr. Fleck a very happy man.

And five years later, the product of our love and happiness, a little lady called Ariel, was born. And another thirteen years later, right to this very moment, she's up in the Ayrie singing with Mr. Y. Myself? I am on the couch, finishing this up. Good and Night!

_**(The journal stops here for now) **_

Mr. Whittington's reading was interrupted by sound of clattering on his stoop, and a few moments later Bernice and Miss Fleck came shuffling in with bags of shampoo.

"Look at 'er, Jay!" gushed Bernice, poking her companion. "Isn't she downright charming?"

After only an hour or two with Millicent, Miss Fleck's general appearance had become greatly improved. There was a healthy sheen to her freshly-dyed hair, and the wave really was becoming. It swooped across her forehead, curled cutely onto each cheek, and fluffed lightly all around.

"I'm really pleased with it," Miss Fleck admitted, sitting on the couch cheerfully. "When that Millicent lady started hauling out chemicals and tools, I was pretty worried, but she knows her stuff! I'm happy, very happy."

"You ought to be," said Mr. Whittington. "Sit down, ladies, and we'll have lunch."

Out onto the table came ham, toast, and soup, which Bernice partook heavily of, congratulating herself on a makeover job well done. Mr. Whittington spoke quietly with Miss Fleck about her father's journal.

"It is lovely, how hard he worked to marry Mama, isn't it?" said Miss Fleck, regarding the journal with tender eyes, but then she blushed. "But I'll admit that once they started getting friendly at the end, I skipped a page or two. I mean, nobody wants to read about their parents..."

"Obviously."

She chuckled.

"He wasn't obscene, though."

"Never was."

Bernice looked up in the middle of making a new sandwich. "Who's obscene?" she asked curiously.

"You are," Miss Fleck declared. "You are obscenely good at this whole makeover thing. Pass the mayonaisse."

**Notes From Authoress: **

**1. I told you it was fluffy. Next time, it's the Fourth of July at Phantasma! And a party at the beach! Woot! **


	14. Fourth of July

**NOTE: There is mature content in this chapter, but (as always) it is not written explicitly. Still, I must warn you that it is there. **

Chapter Fourteen

The Fourth of July

"I saw a woman, just now, who looked just like Genevieve," said Miss Fleck breathlessly, turning from the window. It was breakfast, and Mr. Whittington was making ham and eggs while his guest reclined, surveying the street.

"Genevieve...?"

"Genevieve Pennysworth," clarified Miss Fleck, turning back to the window. "You know, Genny, from my story? The contortionist?"

Mr. Whittington remembered. "Ah. Did you?"

"I sure did." She walked to the table, still amazed. "Obviously not completely the same. The big hair is completely unfashionable now. This lady had it in a long tail down her back, with a flipped-brim hat. Genny wouldn't have the heart to cut her hair; it seems like that's exactly what she'd do. And the face! She had the same narrow face."

"You don't say."

Miss Fleck sighed. "It couldn't be her, though." She looked about distantly, her eyes dim. "I wonder where Genny is now. I'd love to see her again. I wonder what we'd say to each other."

The ham, browned and crisp, came flipping onto a platter, which was deftly deposited on the table. Miss Fleck took some and ate, her eyes still full of thoughts.

"She'd be 38 now," she mused on. "Me and Genny, in our thirties. Damn."

Mr. Whittington sat and listened politely, but it didn't take Miss Fleck long to realize that she was thinking aloud, and she snapped back to reality.

"Sorry, Jay. You're probably waiting for my bum ass to continue the story. I'll not keep you in suspense."

_**(Miss Fleck continues the story.)**_

I had never kissed a man -or anyone, for that matter- until Gangle kissed me in the tunnel, and it was really something. Can't say I was expecting it. One minute I was whimpering about his potential marriage, and then his lips were on mine, but I had scarcely recovered from the initial "well by golly, Gangle's kissing me" shock when he started panicking. According to him, he meant to kiss my forehead but sort of missed. I hope my lips don't look as flat as all that. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't panicking, too. In my day, kissing was a pretty big deal for an innocent virgin, freak or no freak, and to top it all off it was Gangle, my long-time friend, who was doing the kissing. And we were in a dark tunnel. And his chest was warm. It smelled like pine-trees and aftershave. And his touch was so gentle. And I remember thinking that the man's mouth, when not yapping in Italian, was awfully nice to kiss. Not that I had any other kisses with which to compare it, but, still...

At any rate, he panicked, I sort of panicked, and we climbed out of the tunnel in a panic. Once in the daylight, I looked at his nervous face and realized that my lipstick had smeared onto his mouth. Holy mackerel. I looked wildly around. If someone (Daddy, for instance) were to see myself and Gangle crawling out of a tunnel, with my lipstick all over him...! I wiped his mouth with my hanky, gave it to him, and took off. I didn't know what to feel.

Once in the safety of my Aviary, King Charles gave me an eerily suspicious twitch of his eyeball, but with no ability to furnish evidence of my infidelity the matter was quickly dropped. I collapsed onto my throne. What _happened?_ I mentally retraced my actions. I found the trapdoor, I brought Gangle, we went into it, I confessed some of my fears about him potentially leaving, and he accidentally took me in his arms and kissed me, after which he panicked, I panicked, and now here I was, on my throne, heart pounding, trying to make sense of my first kiss as my birds squawked unmercifully in the background. It was amazing how a single little moment could shake the foundations of everything I thought was rock-solid. Does that make sense? I mean, I had three pretty firm foundations:

1. I'm in love with the mysterious Mr. Y. even if he's confusing and scares me a bit.

2. Gangle is the dearest friend I have, and I'd be miserable if he left.

3. Kisses are for people you love.

But now everything was all topsy-turvy! I looked beyond the glass walls of my Aviary and hoped Gangle wasn't coming. I was afraid to look at him. I had no reason to be afraid, but I was, and I couldn't decipher why. Was I afraid of how I'd feel? I imagined walking up to him and looking at him now. I'd be nervous. Not nervous in a bad way. Oh, what was I saying? More importantly, how was I going to be able to look at him later? I ultimately didn't have to look at him. Later that evening, Mr. Y summoned me to the Ayrie for the purpose of more singing.

My heart went wild when I got the message. He wanted to make more music with me! He liked my voice! I ran into my room, did my hair all nice, dove into my second-nicest dress, left Daddy with a note for Gangle, and went skipping off to the Ayrie as though I were on my way to an ice-cream social. In the back of my mind, however, I was genuinely sorry to leave my Italian pal lonely. I resolved to make it up to him tomorrow. I also resolved not to think about that kiss anymore. He said it was an accident. As for my feelings, why get all flustered over an accident? Least said, soonest mended.

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)

Mr. Y was at the piano when I arrived, as he usually was, and the sheet music for "Love Never Dies" was spread out. Outside the eye-shaped windows, it was black, with only a few twinkling lights to remind me that I had not ascended all the way into the heavens; the mortal world was yet below, close enough to reach. Gangle was alone. I wondered if perhaps he was looking up towards the Ayrie and thinking of me, too.

"Good evening, Miss Fleck," Mr. Y greeted. "I don't want to keep you up all night, so I'll cut directly to the chase. I would like you to be Christine Daae's understudy."

I remembered the woman's voice as I had heard it on the cylinder and felt hideously inadequate for such a task. My voice was pretty, but pretty enough to replace Ms. Daae? We're talking a voice pretty enough to make my Daddy sit and sniffle.

"You don't look particularly pleased," observed Mr. Y, his tone suggesting that an explanation was due.

"Oh, I am pleased, indeed," I hastened to explain. "But she's such a very good singer..."

"As are you." Mr. Y turned back to the piano. "Lets warm your voice up."

So that was that. I couldn't very well argue. We went through a series of basic scales for a while, and then some interesting ones that made me chirp out my highest notes. Then some flowing, operatic-type ones, and then some agile little jumps and leaps. I did my best, which seemed to please him.

"Very nice. Now, for the actual aria. You know how it goes, but..." Here he dug out a paper, on which the lyrics were written phonetically, with emphasis put on different vowels... "Follow this when pronouncing the words. I notice that you follow the actual vowels on high notes, which is squeezing your throat shut on them and producing a shrill sound, such as on 'fleeting'. Make the ee's into ih's; no one will be any the wiser."

Unlike my previous singing session with Mr. Y, this one was very practical. Line by line, he ripped that song apart. Breathe here, louder here, softer there, pronounce this differently, watch your dynamics there. But I was still thrilled. He was making me a better singer, and I got to spend all this wonderful, uninterrupted time with him, even though there was still, even then, this little nagging bit of regret for ditching poor Gangle, despite the fact that I couldn't help it.

At last, I was allowed to sing the whole song through with Mr. Y's piano. Once again our shared music combined into a beautiful melody, but with more confidence and technique on my part. I sounded good! He was right about my pinched high notes, and when I hit them this time, substituting a different vowel, they soared rather than shrieked, and made a rather marvelous sound as they echoed off the vaulted ceilings. From there, the song was easy. The piano slowed, I sung the last few words, and then the piano hummed into silence.

"Very nice, Miss Fleck," praised Mr. Y, not exactly smiling, but the tilt of his head and the sound of his voice made him look very satisfied indeed. "You have made a marked improvement. I am pleased. Provided you don't have any questions, you may go."

I hadn't any questions, so I started to leave.

"Ah! Wait a moment," he amended. "Before you go..."

He took a cream and brown-colored box, from which wax paper was poking out in a ruffle, and gave it to me. "These are for you, and for your father. I trust you like jelly-filled doughnuts?"

I nodded and accepted the box into my hands, touched and giddy. Mr. Y had been thinking of me. He was giving me a gift. I was so touched and happy that I scarcely knew how to begin thanking him, even if it was only a pretty box of doughnuts.

"You're very welcome, said Mr. Y," nodding politely, but when I tried to leave again, he suddenly thought of something more to say.

"Ah! My apologies. One more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

He cleared his throat and replied, "I'm noticing that you're beginning to look a little pale and nervous. You're eating sufficiently, are you not?"

That threw me off guard. "Er, yes, I think Im eating well."

"Dr. Gangle as well," continued Mr. Y. "I sometimes pass him, and whenever I do, the man looks downright hunted. The work you three do here at Phantasma is not overly strenuous, is it?"

"No, sir," I replied, seeing a look in my master's eyes that was unsettling. "You must imagine it. All three of us are very pleased with our work; indeed, we're grateful to have work at all, sir."

He nodded slowly, not looking convinced, but not seeming able to produce a reason for further inquiry. I noticed that there was a copy of The New York Times near his piano bench. It was open to the Personal Ads. It was the same page where my Phantom of the Opera advertisement had been placed. He had been reading that page.

And in the dim, illuminated darkness of the Ayrie, Mr. Y did not look very much like an angel of music. The sunlight did not wrap around him in glory, nor did it reflect off his windows and transform the air about him into fairy dust. Standing there, he seemed to be in severe conformity with the shadows, blending into the darkness as though his being were truly one, truly at home in it, and now he was looking at me with the searching intensity of a bloodhound and the ethereal separation of a phantom...

"Alright then," he said in a strange voice. "Goodnight, Miss Fleck. I will see you again."

I descended the Ayrie stairs in a sort of stumble, horrified out of my wits. As I flew down through the darkness, I began to suspect things that I had forbidden myself to feel, but I could not deny them. He had almost certainly seen the article and taken note of the names of the two authors, and just a few moments ago, he had questioned why me and Gangle were looking so nervous. Why would he care about such a thing if he wasn't the...

No! He couldn't be! I bit my lip against a moan of misery and stalwartly held it back. No, I had certainly made a mistake. I was tired and nervous. After all, I'd been kissed earlier. Mr. Y was just pleasantly asking after our welfare. He'd even given Daddy and me a present. In my usual irrational way, I was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, a tempest in a teapot...and all that sort of thing.

)

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)

Not having a free hand available for a more dignified entrance, I shoved the door of Fleck Manor open with my rear and sidled in, the box of doughnuts snuggled into my bosom.

"I'm back, Daddy!" I called, but I needn't have, for he was just nearby on the couch. "And Mr. Y got us a gift. Doughnuts with jelly inside! Dandy, hmm?"

"Oh, did he? That's nice."

Daddy's voice was bright in a phony sort of way, and when I put down the doughnuts I saw that his journal was out and his eyes looked a little puffy. The pen and ink were put away.

"You sound sad, Daddy. Are you feeling alright?"

I expected him to sigh, deny it, and wander off to bed, but he didn't. Instead, his eyes lowered and he took a noticeable swallow before replying, "No. I am not."

He still didn't look at me, even after I'd sat beside him. We sat in silence for some time, until I finally got nervous, but right before I was going to say something, he did.

"Today would have been twenty-three years."

Oh! How could I have forgotten? Today was Daddy and Mama's wedding anniversary, the third that Daddy was enduring as a widower. My heart broke. He'd been alone all this time, with nothing but his thoughts.

"Right around now," he said, looking at the front door, "We were getting back from the reception. Mama was on my back, so she opened the door, and I bonked it open with my head. Couldn't walk then. And Grandpa was sitting right where you're sitting with his pillow and blanket, ready to bunk with the neighbors, and he just looked at the sight we were making and laughed." His eyes scanned the room slowly, as if seeing it happen. "And your Mama kept saying her new name, over and over. Polly Fleck! Polly Fleck!"

I looked at my ring and Daddy's sad face, and felt myself getting teary, so I closed my eyes, but little hot pinpricks of tears squeezed past my eyelashes.

"Ah, what have I done?" mourned Daddy, wiping my tears with rough hands as gentle as a kitten's. "I'm sorry, Baby Fleck. You come dancing in with doughnuts, and I make you cry."

I pulled myself together. "I'm fine now. Don't worry, Daddy. We miss her every anniversary and holiday, but there's no place more wonderful than where Mama has gone now."

He smiled. "That is true. Every day's the Fourth of July for her now."

The Fourth of July! That jogged my memory. "Speaking of which, the Pennysworths are throwing that little party of theirs," I recalled. "You reminded me of it just now."

"Oh." Daddy sounded like I'd just reminded him of a dentist's appointment. "Ah, yes. That."

"You don't sound happy, Daddy."

"Well, you know how I feel about those people. Frankly, I...don't know. But, Ariel...!" He struggled for a moment, his tattoos bunched around his forehead, and then he blurted, "If they offer you any alcohol, you tell them no!The same goes for cigarettes. And if Genevieve starts harping on about her feminist mumbo-jumbo, smile and change the subject."

Daddy was just so charming when he did this. I laughed.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm not as bad as all that!"

"It's not _you_ who's bad," he said grimly. "And another thing! Since you'll certainly be swimming, keep an eye out for strange men. Don't ever allow yourself to be alone anywhere. There are unreasonable fellows who will try to do all sorts of lascivious things to a girl in a bathing suit..."

"Daddy! There's no need to say anything more. I'll behave. Cross my heart and hope to fry. But aren't you coming?"

"Can't," he replied cheekily. "I'm having a seizure tomorrow."

"Daddy!"

He chuckled to himself for a moment, amused by his own joke, and then he said, much more seriously, "Flashing lights are bad for people with seizures. Doctor Lawrence prefers that I lay low. I won't be alone. Edna's coming over."

Daddy usually called Mrs. Beardsley "Edna", but this was the first time he'd mentioned her coming over without looking nervous, and I said so.

"She means well," he replied, "Even if she seems to be on a crusade to fatten me. She's a reasonable woman. I like her. Oh, and before I forget, Ariel, Gangle got your note." He frowned. "The man was acting downright strange tonight."

"Strange? In what way?"

"I don't know, exactly." Daddy looked at the door, as though trying to picture it. "I told him you were with Mr. Y, and he says _what does he want with her?_ In a spiteful tone, just like that, as though you hadn't the right. Very bizarre. He apologized before I could say anything, but still. I've never known the man to be unreasonable like that."

Nor had I, to be honest. I'd always found Gangle to be quite understanding, but from what Daddy was describing, he actually sounded offended. Why? Why, indeed? I didn't ask to be called away by Mr. Y. Perhaps he was just grumpy about other things. I'd find out tomorrow.

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The next day was the Fourth of July! At breakfast, we were served the usual stuff, but we also had a huge tray of red, white, and blue cupcakes arranged into a big American flag that everybody just loved. It really got us all into the spirit. I took a red one, and so did Daddy.

"Mmm!" he said, savoring the icing. "Moments like this make me proud to be an American."

Damien and Genevieve insisted on taking the white "stars" out of the field of blue, which made someone complain that they were "spoiling the effect", to which they responded by telling the person to shove off and lighten up. Everyone else just grabbed the nearest cupcake and hurried to their seats.

"What'd you say, Gangle?" crowed Damien when the man entered the tent. "God Bless Italia?"

"Aw, don't tease the man," wheezed Mr. Geddes.

I licked the last of the red icing off my finger and took a shy look at my Signor. He looked a little off, like he was trying to get over being aggravated or something. He didn't answer back to Damien. He took a blue cupcake and sat across from me.

"No," he said calmly. "Today, it is God Bless America."

"Amen!" seconded Aggie around a mouthful of cake, which made Ann scold her.

Damien, who had been clearly hoping to egg Gangle on, sat down, disappointed.

Gangle didn't say good morning to me or Daddy, or even complain about the food. He just ate, his face hard, his demeanor distant, and his attitude formal, almost cold. He took his blue cupcake apart with his fork and joylessly ate.

Daddy seemed to notice his behavior, but didn't say anything. At a tap from Mr. Geddes, he got up and went to help the man on top of his newspaper booster-seat, and was promptly engaged in a conversation with Mrs. Beardsley.

"Good morning," I ventured cautiously.

Gangle didn't look at me. "Good morning." After a rather awkward silence passed, he added, rather coldly, "So, how did singing with Mr. Y go?"

"Very well," I replied, trying and failing to meet his eye. "He wants me to be Christine Daae's understudy. He's teaching me to sing."

He cut another piece, not looking up. "You must be very happy."

His behavior was really starting to hurt my feelings and infuriate me at the same time. Was he seriously taking offense to me singing with Mr. Y? Why?

I swallowed the tremble in my throat. "I didn't have a choice, you know. I actually wanted to refuse."

He looked up, and his face changed from coldness to a meek, ashamed softness, seemingly realizing his rudeness at last. He put down his fork and brought his hand to his face with a shivering breath.

"I not being nice to you, Signorina," he murmured in a suddenly weepy and heavily Italian voice. "I sorry. I having a bad time today."

I'd seen him get mad and yell, but never emotional like this, and this abrupt shift startled and hurt me so much that my eyes watered. I got up and quickly went over to him.

"A bad time?" I asked gently, taking his other hand. "What kind of a bad time?"

He wiped his eyes with a napkin. "Nothing you can help. Stupid things."

A stray tear that he'd missed remained quivering under his eye. The sight made my heart twist with a desperate, maternal desperation to set everything alright. I coaxed him up and out of the tent, to somewhere we could talk it over. Before we left, I caught a glimpse of Daddy, still chatting with Mrs. Beardsley.

Our place of refuge turned out to be a bench near the Crystal Fountains. All around us, Phantasma was aflutter with patriotic ribbons and hangings of stars and stripes. Once there and seated, my dear proud Gangle put away his napkin and tried to be as stoic as he could, which resulted in him having watery eyes but a stiff, frozen face. His rubber snakes looked as though they had more feeling. I went close to him, but that only seemed to make him more determined to keep a stiff upper lip.

He forced himself to talk calmly. "Sorry I was so depressing, Signorina, but I am just having some love issues. That's all. I need to work them out."

"Things aren't going so good with that Maria lady?"

He blinked and looked down. "It isn't that things aren't good. But I am having a hard time with my decision."

It turned out that poor Gangle was in agony over his indecision. He wasn't so sure that the lady was really the one for him. To make it even more confusing, he was factoring things like leaving Phantasma, and his friends, his brother, and where he'd live, and all that sort of thing.

"And you, Signorina," he added. "I must also think of you."

"Me?" I felt morally obligated to protest. "Oh, Gangle, don't let little old _me_ get in the way of finding happiness! Listen, I know the whole idea of you getting married made me act like a whining ninny yesterday in...the tunnel, but..."

My eyes met his mellow brown ones for a shy little moment.

"Er, no!" I cried, fiddling with my hat. "I'm not trying to say that I wouldn't miss you, but I was...very..._emotional _yesterday, more than I ought to have been, which impaired my judgement..."

But I had already succeeded in steering the conversation back to yesterday's "tunnel episode". Gangle took my hands, the way he always did when he needed to ask something very serious.

"Signorina? I didn't upset you with that kiss, did I? I know what you wrote in your note, but did you really get upset?"

I looked at where my little hands were nestled in his, and my heart began to flutter. "I was surprised, but not upset," I said, and that was the truth. "Now, Gangle, I think I know how I can help you."

"Really? How?"

"I'll watch that Maria lady," I explained. "Just observe how she is. Sometimes we have a hard time knowing what's good for us, because we don't know ourselves like others do. I reckon I know you pretty well."

He blushed. "If you say so."

"I...do say so!" I replied, feeling shy again. "Anyhow, I'll observe her for a while, get an understanding of who she is, and I'll tell you if she's the girl for you. At least you'll have an outsider's opinion."

I said it like a professor describing the theory of evolution, but Gangle looked touched nevertheless.

"You are very sweet, Signorina," he told me, releasing my hands. "And if I could, somehow..." He hesitated for a moment, but went on... "I would make Mr. Y love you."

That really touched me. Almost without thinking, I fell forward and hugged him, fighting back sentimental tears, but the mention of Mr. Y filled me with knee-jerk terror. I remembered the way he looked at me in the darkness, as though he were staring a hole right through my mind, trying to see all my secrets. I was trying so hard to fight this mental image and replace it with the fantasies of angels and music, but it wouldn't go away. Every time I closed my eyes, it was there. Gangle hugged me back. Something about the strength of his arms made me want to tell him everything.

"Last night," I began, "Mr. Y..."

But I couldn't finish. The phantom was fake so long as it was in my mind. If I gave my fears a voice, it would be real.

"What about Mr. Y, Signorina?"

"He gave me and Daddy a box of doughnuts." That was a nice, safe reply. "Jelly-filled doughnuts."

Gangle snorted like it was the biggest joke on earth and rolled his eyes, unable to believe that any country but Italy could make decent food. "Jelly-filled doughnuts!" he crowed. "_Questo è il tipico spazzatura americani._ I should make you _cantuccini, _and give it to you with coffee. You would like that better. But, ah, why did he give you doughnuts?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. He just did. C'mon, let's go back to breakfast before Daddy panics."

We did.

"Thank you, Signorina," said Gangle on the way back, "For helping me. And now, I do it right."

I blinked in confusion. "Do it right?"

And all at once I felt his hands on my shoulders and his lips kissing my forehead. Then he smiled down at me and said, "There. I did it right."

I was too flustered to say anything, and off he swept back into the dining tent, leaving me to awkwardly touch my forehead and reflect on what a very proficient kisser he was. Then I was embarrassed and went in as well. We both sat down and started eating, and Daddy finished his conversation and joined us. He never knew that we'd left in the first place.

"She's a yapper, that Edna," he said with an indulgent smile, but when he looked at me concern swept over his face."Why, Ariel, you're blushing. Is something wrong?"

True to his word, my cheeks were flaming hot when I touched them. I looked at my breakfast, heart fluttering.

"Er, no, nothing's wrong."

But I kept feeling the sensation of Gangle's lips on my forehead for the rest of the meal.

)

(

)

The Pennysworth Fourth-of-July celebration began promptly at dusk, along with the first fireworks, and those beaches were mobbed. Nevertheless, people kept their distance from us freaks. Genny and Damien had erected a big circle of torches to act as our party area, and inside were chairs, towels, and big tables full of food: little hot-dogs, hot potato salad, corn on the cob, finger sandwiches, pickles, fried chicken (provided by Aggie-Ann), grilled zucchini, and gleaming glass bottles of Coca-Cola. Also included were "forbidden items", namely, the things Daddy had forbidden me to have: beer, cigarettes, and cigars.

We freaks looked funny in real life, but we looked downright hilarious in bathing suits. When Gangle's brother, Giovanni, arrived with that Maria lady, they just couldn't get enough of us. They, of course, looked handsome and beautiful, respectively. Aggie-Ann departed from their usual religious routine and decided to scare people by covering themselves with sand, greeting folks while pretending to be two separate sisters, and then leaping up to reveal that they were conjoined. Off the person would run, shrieking, leaving Aggie to laugh, "Lawd, Ah 'pologize!" Then they'd do it again.

The mellow, twinkly stars were mingling with the flaming sparks of their more flamboyant cousins, the fireworks, when I strolled out of the dressing tent in my bathing suit and fiddled with my cap. This was "my day", remember, and so my bathing suit bore little resemblance to what I see girls flitting about in today. Mine was a navy blue sailor-looking number, with sleeves, a kilted skirt, and black stockings. If you waded any deeper than mid-thigh, the sheer suction of the water soaking into the fabric would drag you, screaming, to the bottom of the ocean.

Anyway, out I came and Genevieve screamed in delight, already dressed in her bathing suit. "Ariel! I declare! You may be the loveliest sight I've seen yet!"

"Bathing Beauty," sang Gangle cheekily, "Take a look at yoooou!"

Nearby, Damien was piling finger foods onto a plate, the glowing embers of his cigarette sprinkling everywhere. "Do _not_ sing that godawful song!" he yelled. "I just got it out of my head! Here, have some snacks! Genny, get me a beer!"

"What do I look like? The hired help?" roared Genny in return. "Get it yourself! Come, Ariel, let's drown each other in the ocean!"

I couldn't wear my leg brace in the sea, so Genny had to help me hobble along, with the added help of Gangle.

"Very careful! Ariel's leg can only support her a very small bit!"

"I know, Italian, I know. There's a brain under this hair, I swear."

The moonlight and fireworks made the ocean glow in a marvelous tapestry of colors and sparkles, and in the midst of this were a great many people, splashing and scattering it all about. Very carefully, Genny and Gangle lugged my helpless butt into the water, until I was up to my waist and could hop around with help, aided by the buoyancy of the water. My bad leg felt weightless.

"She okay, Greg?" called Maria, who didn't need the baby treatment and came splashing in like a movie star, Giovanni at her side.

"Just fine!" Gangle called back. "I will come in a minute!"

I was having fun, bouncing around in the sea. I was content with the few activities I could do. Better to play it safe, than risk drowning! Reasonable, as Daddy would say!

Genny didn't seem to agree. "Say, Ariel, you must be awfully bored, just bouncing like that," she mused aloud. "Hey, Gangle! How about you pick her up, take her in deeper?"

Take me in deeper? I looked at the dark, deep sea and panicked. "Er, I don't..."

"Ah, sure I can!" replied Gangle. "Put your arm around my neck, Signorina."

"Like this, Ariel," said Genny, taking my arm and doing it for me as I hyperventilated, and before I could protest I was out of the water, my suit dripping, and Gangle was holding me against his chest. I did not dare remove my arm from his neck.

Genny's narrow face illuminated with genuine glee. She shook the drops from her giant head of hair and laughed. "Very nice! C'mon, let's go deeper! Isn't this fun, Ariel?"

"Don't drop me," I begged Gangle, unable to concentrate on anything but the deep, terrifying waves. "You understand? Don't drop me."

I was so close to him that I could feel his chuckle against my chest. "I won't drop you."

Boy, was I scared, and of course everybody thought that it was just hilarious.

"Ay, ay, Greg!" laughed Maria, arms akimbo."You going to kill her?"

For added fun, Giovanni went just below the surface of the water and gargled like he was drowing.

Gangle's grip on me tightened. "Don't worry, Signorina," he whispered. "They are big teasers. Always have been. But I will not drop you. You are safe with me."

And in that moment, as I huddled, dripping and nervous against the comforting bigness of his chest (I'll be winning the Pulitzer prize for poetry any day now), smelling his masculine smell, I believed it. I really did feel safe. I pressed even closer and relaxed, finally able to really enjoy the beauty of the stars and fireworks over the sea. The water around us was warm and dark. We were enclosed in a Fourth of July Fairyland, me and Gangle. I gave the water a little kick.

"It's so beautiful out tonight," I said.

"Beautiful, yes, yes. You okay, Signorina?"

"I'm okay." I poked his nose and pointed at the stars. "It's like we're watching them as always, just from the..."

Just then, Genny splashed wildly back, yelling, "Hey! Hey! Watch out for the...!"

The next word would have been "wave". One minute I was waxing poetic over the stars, hugging Gangle's neck, and then an explosion of water and seaweed and God knows what blasted through every orifice in my face. I felt myself being lifted up by an Almighty force, and I landed, screaming like a banshee, over Gangle's shoulder, my bosom squashed on his shouder. He didn't let go, though. I know I sure didn't. He quickly scooped me up, one arm across my back and the other across my rear. Boy, was I scared. I hope I didn't hurt the man's eardrums that badly.

"That was unexpected!" coughed Gangle. "Okay, Signorina?"

I did not release my death grip from his neck. "Yes. Now take me back to shore. Now."

And he did, a chorus of laughter hot on our heels. Apparently a lot of people, by some sadistic stroke of Fate, happened to see the spectacle we'd made of ourselves. Gangle's two pals were almost beside themselves with hilarity, snorting and gagging, and Genny pretended to get hit by a wave the whole way back. I didn't care. All I wanted was the dry earth. I clung to Gangle like a wet leaf, nothing between him and I but two thin layers of wet fabric, until at last I was safe, and he lowered me onto a towel.

"I was getting itchy for a smoke anyway," said Genny with a shrug. "I'll get you some snacks, Ariel."

Off she went, leaving Gangle to toss another towel around me. Getting doused with a wave had messed his hair and covered his voice trumpet in little beads of water.

"I have to play with Maria now, okay, Signorina? I'll come back in a bit."

And play they did. I watched them as I reclined on the sand. Giovanni playfully bonked his head, and then that Maria lady splashed him. Never one to tolerate insolence, Gangle responded with splashes of his own, and the whole thing erupted into a splashing battle that went on until all three of them could splash no more. Then they waded around. Gangle looked up at the beautiful night sky, and taking Maria's hand, he tried to show her the stars, but she only took that opportunity to splash him again.

Watching them made me mad. It seemed that all Giovanni and Maria wanted to do was splash around, with no appreciation for the scene. I had a half mind to go back into the sea and give Maria a few splashes of my own. I had no idea what Gangle saw in her. All beauty and not enough reasonability. No appreciation for higher things! I bet she never read a single line of Poe.

"Hey, Ariel, what's wrong?" asked Genny, returning and giving me a plate of finger sandwiches and potato crisps. "You've got a face that could curdle cream."

I told her it was nothing. She settled beside me with her beer and took a long swig.

"This is one hell of a Fourth of July," she sighed. "I declare I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed myself so much. And I'm so glad..." Here she smooched my cheek..."That you came, Ariel."

I smooched her back. "I'm glad I came too."

She tossed her arm around me and clucked and cooed for a bit, then seemed to think of something and roared for Damien to set up a fire for making S'mores. She managed to bully him quite adeptly into making a pit, filling it with wood, and igniting a torch that he stuck down his throat (this always made me cringe), enabling him to breathe fire onto what soon became a blazing campfire.

By the time marshmallows, chocolate, and grahams were distributed, Gangle and his pals came ambling over, intrigued by the mouthwatering smell of our gooey S'mores.

Gangle and Maria sat together on the other side of the fire, exhausted but smiling. Giovanni tossed them towels.

"Ah, Signorina!" cried Gangle, wrapped up like a wet cannoli, "Maria beat me up."

"Si!" added Giovanni. "Beat him like a bowl of eggs!"

Which made Maria stop in the middle of patting her gorgeous hair and giggle. I pulled my cap on tighter, hating her guts.

"Ay, ay, you not so good with fighting, Greg," the lady replied cheekily. "Every time, I beat you."

Gangle poked her nose. "That's because you give me no time to recover! _Tu sei una donna ridicola! _When will you learn to play fair?"

Maria poked him back and quoted. "Said the raven, Nevermore!"

I almost leapt from my seat in indignation. It took every ounce of fortitude that I was mistress of to prevent me from roaring the correct quotation in her face, while simultaneously shaking her coffee-tanned shoulders. Any idiot off the street could tell you it was "_Quoth_ the raven, Nevermore". I couldn't even look in her direction for the rest of our S'more time. One can scarcely be expected to respect a woman who quotes Poe incorrectly. She flung her arm around Gangle, and this boiling rage bubbled in my heart.

"Ariel," whispered Genny. "I'm itching to let off some steam. Come with me; let's have a look a the sights."

Her offer couldn't have come at a better time. I bid my campfire mates adieu, took Genny's arm, and off we went along the shoreline, dodging waves and letting the cool, smoke-scented breeze refresh us. Holidays always have an element of fun and shared excitement to them that links humanity better than any method I know. It cheers your heart, enjoying the old traditions, teaching them to others, sharing the fun and food. That's how I felt as Genny and I went along, watching folks making sandcastles and eating hot-dogs, and whenever we encountered a fellow freak we slapped hands.

"We'll get a fantastic view of the sky," said Genny as we approached the piers, "If we sneak inside one of those old bathing machines."

"Are we allowed?"

"Hell if I know."

Like old relics, the bathing machines sat sturdy and useless, their faded wheels and chipped paint-jobs telling a story of days gone by. Daddy told me that when they were in use, back in his day, they'd be rolled into the sea, one after another, until the shoreline looked like the lost city of Atlantis. It wasn't considered very nice for men and ladies to swim near each other, so people used bathing machines for privacy. Mr. Geddes secretly told me that once, Daddy covered himself in rags and lay in the corner of a bathing machine that Mama was going to use, disguising himself as a pile of towels. Once the machine was out at sea and the coast was clear, out came Daddy, and with no one around, my parents engaged in scandalous behavior, such as rubbing ankles and splashing water on each other. Those Victorians.

"Come in!" laughed Genny, crawling inside. "Follow me! Hopefully we won't encounter any Victorian ghosts."

)

(

)

Soaking wet and giggling like ninnies, we crawled up into the dark, musty-smelling interior of the bathing machine. Genny kicked the back door open, giving us a fine view of the sea. It was glorious, watching the fluorescent embers of the fireworks reflecting off the water. It seemed that the whole world was nothing but cool water and those splendid lights.

"How marvelous," I sighed. "Isn't this the best Fourth of July celebration ever, Genny? Just look at the colors sparkling on the sea. Beautiful!"

And it was. In the distance we heard the excited cries of the beach-goers as we watched the firework embers fall into the sea. There was a smoky, crisp smell in the air. There was nowhere I'd rather be in the world than there at Coney Island, celebrating at the shore.

"I think," Genny said at length, drawing close to me, "That you are more beautiful than the sea."

Me? I was more beautiful than the sea? I had not expected that, but the comment touched me nevertheless, and I told her so. It was so nice of her. Still, at the same, this sort of adoration was making me feel a little uneasy...

"It's true," she insisted softly. She grabbed my hands and looked into my eyes. "You are not much like other girls, Ariel. You are different..." Here she fondly ruffled my hair-"But so, so beautiful."

For a long moment we sat there in the darkness looking at each other, and then I noticed her face tilting towards me, her eyes silently asking me to move closer, and when I did the world was suddenly hazy. I forgot where I was. There was a strange magnetism that was bringing our faces together. Her cheek brushed against mine.

"Ariel," she murmured, "I love you."

Our mouths met, warm and soft, and in the damp darkness of that bathing machine I received my second kiss in a way I sure never imagined. It was really something. I can't describe it. Genny cradled me in the crook of her arm so we could kiss even more intensely, and through our bathing suits I could feel the bouncy softness of her chest. This was madness! What was I doing?

"Genny!" I gasped. "Why...what...is this about?"

And she was pleased to tell me. Turns out Genny was a lesbian, which completely explained her issues with men and filled in a great many blanks, but you've got to understand my mindset. Back in the day, I had absolutely no idea that anything sexual could happen between two women. Never even flitted across my mind. So I was pretty darn bewildered when Genny told me that she was in love with me -really in love in with me- and had been for a reasonably long time.

I was confused, but it felt good to be loved. That place in my heart, that strange longing I had been feeling for months...was this it? Here it was, flaring up again. I didn't know what to do. Laugh, cry, scream? What would Daddy...what would Mama think of me now? Genevieve stared down at me, looking straight into my eyes as if she were reading my mind.

"You're trembling, Ariel," she observed gently. "Are you alright?"

Something about the genuine sympathy in her voice made me want to break down and tell her everything, but all I could manage was a weak moan.

"I don't know, Genny. I don't know anything anymore. I don't know myself." I was going to cry if this kept up. "I feel so...I don't even know how I feel. Strange, I suppose..."

Her face softened with a sort of bittersweet sympathy. "Well, I guess strange girls like us need to stick together. I'm glad I found you."

Our lips met again, but this time we lingered, luxuriously taking our time. My nerves began to tingle like static. My mind was reeling over the wild, taboo nature of our behavior. I felt as though there was a bird trapped in my ribcage, inflicting beautful, obscene injury upon my heart in its attempt to get out. I grabbed Genny desperately, unsure of whether to hold on or run for it.

"Genny," I gasped, "You're making feel me so..." But what she was making me feel I didn't know.

"Mmm," she purred knowingly, tracing my belly with her fingers. "I know. But never mind." And then in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, "Lie back."

For the sake of delicacy, I must not describe outright what happened between the two of us next; however, because these are "modern times", I am content to illustrate it metaphorically.

I had once heard marital relations compared to someone opening a shut door and walking through it. I forget where; it must have been a book. Anyhow, that's not what Genny did.

Rather then bursting through my door like a brash young man might, she was quite circumspect, and contented herself with ringing the doorbell. Sitting frigidly in the house, I was bemused by this visitor and her insistent, vigorous ringing, but at length I grew curious from all the ringing, then warm, and all at once my heart changed; I wanted desperately to let her in. On and on she rang and rang, and all the while my soul within me was aflame. I begged her to come inside. Pleaded. Screamed. And then...with a final saucy jingle of the bell, the door was flung open, and I fell moaning and gasping into her arms, where she held me until every last shudder was gone.

And I do hope you understood that, for that is absolutely all the explanation you are going to get.

Lying back against Genny, I felt initiated into a strange new world. Outside, the fireworks were still exploding. People were laughing. The breeze whispered across my legs.

"How did you like that, little Miss Fleck?" she finally asked me, stroking my belly. "A lot better than pointing your heels at the ceiling and thinking of England, hmm?"

How did I like it? Holy Mackerel, I didn't imagine that anything could feel as good as that! Did that happen to everyone? But I didn't say what I felt, for I was too numb with shock at what I had allowed Genny to do to me, the places I had permitted her to explore! It had been like the continuation and conclusion of what I'd felt when I'd been dreaming of Mr. Y, and I'd given myself an experimental touch.

"Genny," I eventually managed to sputter."Genny, what have we just...done?"

The gentleness in Genny's voice and eyes made her seem like a completely different person. "Loved each other," she replied, but eventually she caught on to my confusion and was blunter. "I played around with you, and you _came_, cutie. By golly, you're innocent. I love it! But, Ariel..." Here her eyes watered, and her countenance wobbled with emotion. "You're not scared or upset, are you? Please, don't be. I love you."

I kissed poor Genny and told her that I loved her, too. What can I say? I was emotional and still giddy from the rush of physical pleasure I'd just enjoyed. I didn't even know who I was anymore. In hindsight, my behavior makes no sense. When you're "in the moment", you do and say the damndest things. Am I right?

"Oh, Ariel," breathed Genny, hugging me, tears in her eyes. "Ariel, my little love. I'm so lucky."

)

(

)

After a few more minutes of kisses and the like, I hurried out of that bathing machine and went straight home. Didn't say goodnight to anyone or anything. Just grabbed my clothes and went right home. Off I went like a malformed automaton, my mind numb, my limbs jerky, and my thoughts recycling the same theme over and over. All around me, fireworks were exploding, trumpets were honking, and noisemakers were spinning in the smoky summer air, and I passed through it all like a ghost. It was as though Genny had brought me to life, and then slain me.

When I entered Fleck Manor, Daddy and Mrs. Beardsley looked up from where they sat, together, on the parlor couch. There were photographs spread out across their laps, and saucers of crumbs and drops of tea sat neglected on the table. They seemed quite happy.

"Well, hello, Ariel!" greeted Mrs. Beardsley. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

She couldn't realize the irony of my reply. "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled and kept shuffling through pictures, but Daddy, like most daddies, had this supernatural ability to detect that something was not right with me. He put down the pictures he was holding and looked at me, his tattoos assuming a serious, concerned, "Daddy" sort of expression that made me feel as though I were getting an x-ray.

"Did something go wrong, Ariel?" he asked slowly.

"Oh no, not at all," I lied. "But I, ah, got sea water in my hair and need to take a bath. What are you and Mrs. Beardsley looking at?"

"Looking at photos from the old days!" The lady was pleased to inform me, piling some up and showing me. "These are some of mine. Now, who do you suppose that pretty lady is?"

The lady, a much younger Mrs. Beardsley, was wearing a plaid daydress and sitting in a chair next to a table, and next to the table was a man, the late Mr. Beardsley. There was a painted backdrop behind them. The next photo was Mrs. Beardsley when she was my age. I looked at the photo of the young lady with the coiled braids, and then at her identical but older counterpart, who was grinning at me.

"Little did I know I'd one day turn into a bearded old hag!" she chuckled, taking the pictures back.

"You are not a hag, Edna," chided Daddy softly, "And I will not hear you say so, either."

I used this opportunity to grab my pajamas and hustle off to have a bath. Once enveloped in the steaming water, I let myself float and contemplate the last few hours. The place where I'd been touched felt both sore and enlarged, as if to remind me that it had all really happened. Boy, did I feel the loss of Mama in that moment. I felt it bad. My situation would have certainly confused her, but she was a comforting presence.

My prized emerald ring was precious to me, but I had received it at a bitter cost.

_**(Miss Fleck stops here for now.)**_

"On and on," sighed Miss Fleck, "I keep tainting your notions of Edwardian women, Jay. I'm such an animal."

But Mr. Whittington had a more pressing question. "Ariel," he asked timidly. "If it isn't too presumptious, are you actually...?"

"No, no, definitely no!" Miss Fleck chuckled, shaking her bobbed head. "Which really threw a monkey wrench into things, let me tell you. But that's for another time."

**Notes from Authoress: **

**1. If I don't update again before Christmas, then MERRY CHRISTMAS! **

**2. Thanks for reading this latest, eyebrow-raising installment of "City of Wonders". **

0000


	15. Those In Glass Carriages

Chapter Fifteen

Those In Glass Carriages

When Mr. Whittington and Rodger went to see Mr. De Rossi again, he listened to their update with a grim expression. The man himself was looking reasonably healthy, but he looked tired as he spoke.

"That is the thing," he sighed. "In those days, who knew? Hindsight is 20-20. That time of the year was awful, really, me and Ariel went through some bad times. We didn't understand each other, got into fights."

"She never mentioned any fights to me," said Mr. Whittington.

De Rossi smiled sadly. "Well, she won't likely tell you everything. She might not remember all of it. I don't. But after the Fourth of July, we started having a lot of trouble."

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

The Pennysworths' party was a rollicking success. Good food, good friends, and the weather was just perfect. Giovanni and Maria raved about it as I walked them to the main gate to say goodnight. We stopped under a large neon clown and, leaning, let the crowd of tired mothers and half-conscious drunks stumble past us into the night.

"I never had such a good time, Greg," gushed Maria, looking pleasantly drowsy, a wisp of wet hair curled on her cheek. "If this is what Fourth of July is, then I love it."

Giovanni was equally enthused. "Si, si! America throws good parties, even if-ah their food is not so good." His smile spread wide so that I saw all his teeth. "And I will never forget...seeing you and Ah-ree-ella...getting hit-ah by that wave!"

I knew they'd grill me with that one last time, as they had been doing all evening, and they did. They had a routine: Giovanni pretended to be the wave, and he would crash into Maria, who would fall over his shoulder and shriek.

"Eeek! Eeek!" she screamed and laughed. "Eeek! Save me, Greg!"

Giovanni nudged my shoulder and winked. "Ah-ree-ella's a real screamer. She must-ah be a real treat in bed."

Of all the things I needed to visualize. "Vanni..." I scolded.

"Hey, hey! I not saying that's a bad thing!" he said, waving his hands. "It is-ah good for a lady to ess-press herself." He gave Maria a sideways glance. "Well, anyways, _buona notte,_ Greg!"

A final handshaking and kisses, and off went Giovanni and Maria into the throng of exiting patrons. I sighed and looked a the clock tower. It was eleven o' clock. Time for me to go to bed, and for once I didn't have makeup to remove or a costume to hang up. All I needed was a quick sponge-bath.

Damien was already in the bathroom when I walked in, applying lotion to his mouth scars.

"Evenin', De Rossi," he greeted. "Did you have fun?"

I went to the sink and turned on the hot water. "I had a lot of fun, thank you. Maria and Giovanni did too. You and Genevieve throw good parties."

At the mention of his sister, Damien's demeanor became subdued, almost sad. "Genevieve," he said.

When his attitude didn't brighten again, I was obliged to inquire as to why.

It seemed that he had only been waiting for someone to ask. Perhaps it was only the black bathrobe, but the man suddenly seemed to grow pale; his eyes darted with anxiety, and the voice that usually laughed so arrogantly took on an unusually pained tone.

"It's Genny," he told me. "I think something's wrong with her."

As I washed my arms, I pictured the girl as she had looked that evening: tall, loud, big hair. Nothing unusual. "I didn't see anything different about her tonight, Damien. In what way is there something wrong with her?"

"Well, at the party she was herself. But when we got back home a while ago..." He drifted off, as though he couldn't quite explain, and then he continued, falteringly, "She made me a cup of tea."

I blinked. "Made you a cup of tea?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous," he insisted, "But she never does that. Ever. She made me tea, made some for herself, and sat there smiling the whole time. I asked her what the hell she was smoking, and she just shrugged and smiled some more, and told me it was a beautiful night, and a beautiful world. Then she went to bed."

"Oh. That sounds nice."

"Yes, it sounds nice," Damien said, still upset. "But you don't know her like I do. This is not how she acts. And right out of the blue like this..."

I turned back to my washing, convinced that he was overreacting.

"I think she's finally snapped." His voice began trembling. "You don't know the abuse she's seen, De Rossi. You'd never know, but before we even signed on to Astley's, we were in Rhode Island, in this joint called Callahan's." He said it like it was a concentration camp that he'd barely escaped from. "Genny and me, we're orphans. Always were. No one to look out for us. That makes it easy for people to prey on you."

At this point I had stopped washing and went to sit beside the man. He was staring at the floor, two tears in his eyes as he related his tale, almost as though he were being forced.

"The guy in charge of the joint, the Callahan guy, he had this..." He shook his head and shivered in disgust-"He had this love...if you can call it love...anyway, he had this thing for little girls."

Our eyes met, and when I saw the grief-stricken suggestion in his eyes I was so horrified that I was almost nauseous. I didn't want or need to hear any more, but I couldn't conjure up any words.

"I was a little boy, and Genny was even younger. Wasn't even having her period yet. The age where you're into ponies and princesses, you know? And this animal would take her...he'd do it at night...he'd take her, and he'd rape her. He'd slap her around first, and then he'd rape her, and I'd be banging on the door, hollering, and I'd hear Genny scream and scream..."

"Damien!" I cried, the image in my head absolutely terrible, "How...how on earth did you two escape?"

"I snuck away one night and found a policeman," he said. "I had to run around in the dark for some time, but eventually I found one, and told him that the guy I worked for was hurting my little sister. Two days later, Callahan was in jail, Genny was in the hospital, and then we were both sent back to a state orphanage, where we ended up staying until I was eighteen. After that, I applied for guardianship of Genny, got it, and we left the joint, started looking for a job."

"And so that's when you found Astley's, at Coney Island."

He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yep. And I'll tell you, De Rossi, Genny has never been the same since she was raped. Before it happened, she was just like every other girl her age. After that, it was like she became a completely different person. She got all nasty and defensive, didn't want to read and play dolls anymore. Never touched another toy again. All she wants to do is boss and gripe."

This was making me very sad. "But she still cares about you, doesn't she?"

He kept staring at the ground, his scarred countenance losing its ferocity and taking on the sad, broken look of someone who has survived unspeakable horrors.

"I know she loves me, somewhere deep inside," he said softly. "Hatred is just how she expresses it. To be perfectly honest, I think she actually wants me to hate her."

"Why?"

"Because she knows how to handle hatred. It's predictable. Love isn't. It's a give-and-take. You have to have trust in order to love, and she just doesn't trust anyone anymore. So she hates everyone, even me, because it's safer." His voice became throaty. "And now she's suddenly all happy, calling me dear and making me tea, calling the world a beautiful place. Why would she suddenly do that? When's it ever been beautiful to her, huh? I think she's finally snapped, De Rossi, I really do."

The poor fellow was becoming emotional, so I had to play it cool, offer some help.

"Just wait a while," I told him. "After all, you just had this big party. She's probably just excited. If it goes on for a while, then maybe you'll want to ask her how she's feeling."

He nodded, still looking upset. "Right. I'll do that. Don't tell anybody what we've discussed."

)

(

)

I went to bed a sadder and more serious man, but despite the sad news I'd just heard, my mind sort of automatically gravitated towards Ariel. I couldn't help it. Every night, I always thought of her. I still do, to this very day. I let my mind wander over everything we'd done that day, from when she'd comforted me at breakfast to when we got hit by the wave. Especially when we got hit by the wave. It had been a precious moment, holding her in my arms and looking at the stars, and then came that explosion of water that sent her, screaming and soaked, over my shoulder. Call me typically masculine, but I rather liked the way she clutched and snuggled against me when she was scared. Also, even though "Gangle" bemoaned it, holding her while we were both soaked thrilled me, particularly because the cold water had made her chest "come to life", if you know what I mean.

Maria was also cute, in a different way. There was little she and I could do in the presence of top-wolf Giovanni, but we could play at splashing and fighting, and we fed each other S'mores at the campfire. Ariel and Genny went for a walk not long after that. Once they left, Aggie-Ann played patriotic songs on the banjo. Giovanni proposed that they play "Maria Mari" for Maria, and even though they didn't know how, he told them the chords, and we sang with it. Then we did the same thing with some other songs.

As I had tried to do earlier, I tried to point out some constellations to Maria; Ariel had taught me how to locate a great many, but that bored her just as quickly as before. She wanted to eat more goodies and have a dance. She was never one for contemplation. Dance, dance, dance! Damien cranked on a phonograph machine, and the campfire scene transformed into an impromptu dance floor.

Ariel never returned, which was bizzare for her. I figured she was getting tired and worried about ol' Alf, something she was wont to do whenever away from him for any extended length of time. And so it was that the grand Fourth of July celebration came to a close.

)

(

)

"Good morning, everyone!" Genevieve almost crooned as she swept in to breakfast with a small dish, her deep voice lyrical with mirth. "Happy Fifth of July. Damien and I were so pleased to have you at our little party. Thank you for coming. It was a treat. God bless you. God bless the United States of America."

Behind her, Damien stood, his posture humble, his general demeanor not unlike a scarred, nervous housepet. "Ah, yes. It was a treat," he echoed, watching his sister as though he feared she would pull out a rifle and kill everyone in the room.

"This dish is for you, Mr. Fleck." Genny put her little covered dish in front of him. "It's some of last night's dessert. I shouldn't like you to miss it."

Alf looked at the plate and then at Genny, too astonished to even say anything. Some of his half-chewed sausage fell out of his mouth.

From there, the woman who was supposedly Genny sat next to Ariel, dug about in her skirt pocket, and gave her a fistful of hard candies. Then she gave a piece to everyone in the room. When she put Damien's piece on the edge of his plate, like a mother giving her son a vitamin pill, he sucked his scarred lips in and looked like he was going to cry. That was some breakfast.

Genevieve Pennysworth wasn't the only person acting different. Something about Ariel was not the same, either. Her basic personality had not changed, but she developed this sort of nervous, intense, yet sensually uninhibited aura. I didn't notice it the day after the Fourth of July, shrugging it off as a bad day or something, but as the days went on and it kept up, I began to wonder. Many were the times I'd watch her up on her hoop and notice that her moves had a certain...well, sexiness to them. I don't know how else to describe it. Before the Fourth of July, her moves were beautiful but classical, but afterwards they took on a luxurious, sexual sort of feel.

I think Alf noticed it, too, even though he didn't say anything. Ariel would be doing her routine, thrusting her hips and bending into splits, her eyes closed and her moist little rosebud lips slightly parted, and he'd blink and stare, as if unable to see her correctly. Then he'd frown and shake his head, as though he were brushing a notion aside. Her relationship with me was the same as it always was. We looked at stars and talked about life, read poetry and discussed theories. But often, I would watch her green, melancholy eyes turn to the sea, where they would linger for a while. I'd ask her what was wrong, and she'd say it was nothing. During the day, she went about her duties as usual, but with this (as I have said before) this element of sexiness. Not deliberate sexiness, but a fluid, natural kind.

By mid-July, it occurred to me, if only subconciously, what must be going on. I suddenly realized where I'd seen the symptoms before: the stride, the rosy cheeks, the half-smiling, parted lips, the dialated pupils...as much as I wanted to shrug it off, I couldn't deny my gut instinct. I'd seen it again and again back in Italy. Ariel was having sex. What's more, she was doing so on a regular basis. Don't call me crazy. It's a lousy thing to admit, but I, well, _know_ what a satisfied woman looks like, and Ariel fit all the descriptions. But then I'd see her reading "The Pilgrim's Progress" to Alf, prim as a rose, and it seemed ridiculous. The daughter of Alfred "Reasonable" Fleck having frequent premarital sex? Really, Gangle? And with whom? And when would this have begun?

To which my conscience would reply, With who else? The only person I could envision Ariel giving her body willingly to was Mr. Y. There was no other man in Phantasma who made sense, none who would dare. When a girl's got a Dad called "The Mighty Mr. Squelch", the sex isn't worth the potential beating, unless you're his boss or something. Over the next couple days, I watched Ariel and Mr. Y interact very carefully, and to be perfectly frank, I was stunned by how their behaviors validated my theory.

"Good morning, Miss Fleck," Mr. Y would greet her -unusually warmly- in the morning, when all Three of us would come for our cards and keys.

"Good morning, Mr. Y," she'd say back breathily, looking at him for a nervous, reverent moment before looking down, her chest heaving against her corsets. She sure never said good morning to me like that.

The whole feeling was of tension and secrecy, as though something special was going on between them, and they must tread carefully around me and Alf, shooting each other significant little looks. They couldn't just be singing. But what could I do? Who would I tell? What if I was wrong?

)

(

)

"Christine Daae will be coming in September," announced Mr. Y to myself, Alf, and Ariel one day. "And you three are going to figure prominently in the promotion and in the actual arrival. As such, I've got some inventions that I will need to teach you how to operate. Follow me; we'll go to the one in the garage first."

At the base of the Ayrie, under the first spiral of stairs, Mr. Y kept things like spare automatons and metalwork in sort of second workshop. It was like the heavy machinery version of the Ayrie, with more of an emphasis on creating. When we went inside, there was that typical garage aroma: the harsh, acrid oil and the cool scent of steel. On the walls were neat rows of wrenches and hammers, and the on the worktables were sheets of glass and trays of bolts. Something huge, right in the center, was covered by a tarp.

"That's the invention, isn't it, Mr. Y?" asked the ever-perceptive Ariel.

"It certainly is," the man replied, going over to it, his masked face radiating with pride. "And out of everything I've ever made, this may be one of my favorites. Have a look."

Off went the tarp, and the three of us cried out in amazement. It was a carriage, made entirely of heavy glass, pulled by a glass unicorn and driven by a glass skeleton. You'd think it would have been more utilitarian, but Mr. Y had spared no detail design-wise. It was just beautiful. The overhead workshop lights caused little prisms in the rims to throw little rainbows all about the glass and around the room. I felt like I could just jump into the thing, whip the reins, and fly to Santa's Workshop or something.

_"Gee whillikins!"_ cried Alf, so amazed that he reverted back to his quaint childhood slang. "Look at that swell piece of machinery there! It's a beaut, Master, a real beaut!"

"Marvelous, Mr. Y!" gushed Ariel, scurrying in circles around it.

I tried to say something into my voice trumpet, but I failed and ultimately made a wierd honk.

"Thank you." Mr. Y stroked the side of it fondly. "Installing the special features wasn't easy. You'll have to learn how they work before you can drive it."

Alf's tattooed face split into a big, gleeful grin that gave me an amusing glimpse of what he must have looked like as a little boy on Christmas. It was hilarious seeing this childlike delight on the face of a fifty-year old widower.

"We get to drive it?" His usually growly voice was quite high.

"Yes. You three are picking up Ms. Daae from the docks, outside the customs building." Mr. Y's eyes lowered in a secret sort of joy. "And from there, you'll take her to her hotel. Anywhere else she needs to go, you'll drive her about. Get inside."

We did, and when we were seated, Mr. Y pointed out a little lever.

"Pull that lever, Miss Fleck."

She did. All at once, a silvery mist seemed to fog the glass, and suddenly the carriage was completely opaque. We couldn't see out of it, nor could anyone look in. Ariel let go of the lever and shrunk back into her seat, eyes widening, and me and Alf's reactions were basically the same.

"Jer-u-salem crickets!" Alf gasped, looking around in awe. "What in the dickens just happened?"

"The glass fogged over," replied Mr. Y with a serene expression. "This feature is best to use when going about in public."

And that was all the explanation we ever got about that.

Mr. Y "unfogged" the glass by pulling the lever again, and gestured to the skeleton that was sitting where a horseman would usually sit. "Now, this skeleton here controls where the carriage goes. When you-"

"Has he a name?" Ariel asked brightly, completely interrupting the man mid-sentence.

Mr. Y blinked in obvious surprise and stared at her. "A _name,_ Miss Fleck?" he asked, as though he weren't quite understanding.

"Yes, a name," she replied. "Did you give him one?"

There were a few beats of awkward silence. Alf gave his daughter a severe look that she didn't notice.

"I have not," Mr. Y admitted slowly, eyes darting a bit.

"May I name him Oscar?"

"May I inquire as to _why,_ Miss Fleck?"

"Because he looks like an Oscar."

The man didn't seem to know how to even react to such a bizarre request, so he looked at the skeleton, looked at Ariel, and said, in a flustered sort of tone, "You...may."

She smiled at him.

"Any...how," Mr. Y continued lamely, breaking eye contact with her, "The skeleton...er, Oscar, I suppose...he controls the movements. You push this little button and tell him where you wish to go. Dr. Gangle, tell...Oscar...to go to the cotton candy booth. Don't actually call him Oscar, though; I don't know how the mechanism would react..."

I pushed the button and said, "Go to the cotton candy booth."

_"You got it, Boss!"_ growled "Oscar", his skeletal teeth chattering and flames glimmering in his eye sockets.

Ha, ha! Just kidding, just kidding. If the thing had actually done that, all anyone would have seen was my terrified Italian ass hoofing it in the other direction.

In reality, the unicorn lurched forward (the three of us gasped), and the carriage, with us inside, rolled out of the garage into Phantasma.

"I'll be gosh darned," breathed Alf hoarsely, shrinking back against the seat like he was on a roller coaster, and not a carriage going about two miles an hour.

"How does Oscar know how to do it, Mr. Y?" cried Ariel.

He rolled his eyes amusedly at the "Oscar" thing and replied, "That's classified information."

But she was not satisfied yet. "Suppose, Mr. Y," she asked, a cheeky grin on her face, "Suppose if I asked Oscar, _Go to Heaven?" _

"Ariel," said Alf sternly, but there was a glitter of terror in his eyes. Who knew what Mr. Y was capable of?

But Mr. Y seemed to think that Ariel's coy, cutesy behavior towards him was funny. "Well, Miss Fleck," he replied, "I regret to inform you that Oscar is a skeleton, not a miracle worker."

That made us laugh, and before we knew it we arrived at the cotton candy booth. You should have seen the merchant's face when we rolled up.

"Well, we're here at the booth!" declared Ariel.

"Amazing," marveled Alf, looking back at the Ayrie, although he trembled a bit. "Technology today!"

Ariel asked Mr. Y if she might ask Oscar to return to the Ayrie garage again, and when he consented, she thrusted her chest out like a naval captain and ordered, "Go to the Ayrie garage!"

How the heck Oscar knew to take us back I never knew, and in a way, I didn't want to find out. Off we rolled, back to the Ayrie garage. Once among the tools and oilcans again, we climbed out and took a last admiring look at the carriage; then, all too soon, Mr. Y had to put the tarp back over it.

"That's all for today," the man said, leading us out and locking the garage. "We'll learn to operate the hot air balloon tomorrow."

Hot air balloon? That got me excited. Ariel's eyes gleamed. Alf looked nauseous.

"But I would like to keep Miss Fleck for a bit, if you don't need her for anything, Mr. Fleck. Music purposes, you see."

My heart seized. Music purposes, huh? I watched Ariel's porcelain little face growing slightly pink out of the corner of my eye. Mr. Y was giving her an interesting glance.

"Fine by me," said Alf, that charmingly trusting fellow.

"We'll just head up now," said Mr. Y as he headed for the staircase that led to the Ayrie, beckoning for Ariel to follow. "Good afternoon, the both of you."

"See you later!" chirped Ariel, tripping off after him.

Then the two of them started up. Standing there, my mind spinning, I knew that I had to figure this mystery out. I had to be a spy. After Alf had gone his own separate way, I waited for a while, to give Mr. Y and Ariel a chance to arrive in the Ayrie, and once I determined that they'd had enough time, I started up, very quietly.

When the Ayrie door came into sight, I crouched in the darkness. I scarcely breathed, for even the slightest noise would give me away. Carefully, oh so carefully, I pressed my ear to the door to listen. This is what I heard.

A door deep in the Ayrie creaked, followed by timid footfalls, then Mr. Y made an impressed sound.

"Beautiful!" he praised. "I knew it would look nice on you."

"Oh, does it?" came Ariel's voice, nervous and giggly.

"Indeed. Now, we can move on to..."

"In this, Master?" Ariel sounded surprised. "Er, you really want to do it while I'm wearing this?"

"I don't see why not. Sets the mood quite well."

My heart thumped. My face flushed. This exchange hadn't much to do with music!

"But before we do," Mr. Y went on, and I heard him walk elsewhere, "Let's have something to drink."

A tinkling of glasses, a sound of pouring, and sips.

"Now, I'd prefer it if you kept this a secret," said Mr. Y, much more softly. "I mean, don't go about and..."

"I quite understand," replied Ariel in an understanding fashion. "Wouldn't want to make anyone jealous. My lips are sealed."

"Of course. You understand it would be poor publicity if it got out that one of my own employees and I were..."

"Yes, yes, you can trust me, Master. Nobody will suspect a thing."

"Very good, very good. Now, if you're quite done, we'll just..."

There was no way I was going to stick around and listen to them move on. I couldn't bear it. All of my fears were confirmed. As I went down through the darkness, my limbs felt alien, numb, and my stomach was completely turned. The concept was insane, but it was real! Ariel! Beautiful, sweet Ariel! Sleeping with the Master! Sleeping with the Phantom! Living a lie! How could she do it? Perhaps Mr. Y was coercing her?

I thought of Alf, poor, quaint, Victorian, reasonable Alf. The man would be utterly devastated to discover this, but if I knew anything about his personality, I knew that he would destroy anyone -even Mr. Y- who brought his daughter to shame. Then everyone would know. The media would be all over it. Phantasma would be ruined. We'd all be out of jobs. Oh, what could I do? What should I do? It seemed clear to me that I would have to confront Ariel.

)

(

)

It was dinner when I saw her again. In she swept with Genevieve, blushing and cheerful, her green eyes glittering with happy sparkles and her hair coiled in their usual braids, but for the first time, the sight of her filled me with disgust and misery. There was a gauzy pink scarf around her throat.

"Evening, all!" trumpeted the (still!) new-and-improved cheerful Genny, and everyone greeted her, having finally moved past their fear of doing so.

Alf made up a plate for his daughter as she sat down, and commented on her scarf. "Why a scarf, Ariel? Cold?" he teased.

"Genny gave it to me," she explained, "And I think it's just adorable, no matter the weather!"

To which Genny blew a kiss, and Alf looked faintly embarrassed.

Ariel flopped one of the ends."I'll be sure to wave it like a flag when we go up in the hot air balloon..."

"Ah, don't remind me," the nervous Daddy moaned. "Bring a bag with you when we go up, will you, Gangle? I'll need it."

But I did not respond. I was too shocked. For when Ariel had flopped the end of the pink scarf, the part around her neck had momentarily scooted down, and on the lower part of her neck was a big pink hickey. It wasn't a typical bruise; I think I ought to know the difference between the two! The sight of it shook me to the core. That's why she was wearing a scarf! In my mind, I saw Mr. Y's lips sucking on her white, rose-petal flesh...

I completely lost what little appetite I had.

"Uh oh!" crowed Mr. Geddes, grinning as he poured himself some water. "De Rossi doesn't like his sauce!"

A mixture of chuckling and exasperated sighing rippled around the table a bit. I shrugged, too unhappy to even respond. For the remainder of the dinner, I picked at my food and pushed it into different designs, feeling as though all the beauty was sapping out of my world.

"I have something very important to show you!" whispered Ariel to me on the way out. "Very important! I'll show it to you tonight, okay?"

"Okay." I had something to show her, too.

)

(

)

The stars never looked more desolate as they did that evening as Ariel and I sat down on the bench. I knew what I had to do. I had to expose this nonsense, these lies. Seeing Ariel blithely unaware of it all made me even more disgusted and miserable.

"Have a look at this, Gangle dear," she breathed excitedly, and from her skirt pocket she produced a piece of newspaper. "Someone answered our ad! I didn't think they would, but look!"

And it was so. Under the "Personal" section, someone had replied_, "To V. Vellazio and P. Puckett: Have info on Phantom of the Opera. Meet me July 30th, Gypsy Cafe, 5:30 pm. Pay upfront. S. Horner. _

I was genuinely surprised, but my eminent duty robbed me of any excitement. Frankly, this whole business was appalling to me now. After looking at the paper for a bit, I simply handed it right back, with no comment.

"Why, Gangle," she almost protested, an injured look in her eyes. "You don't seem happy at all."

I looked away. "That's because I'm not happy at all."

"But...why?"

"Because I am sick of this nonsense, all these lies." Fury was beginning to boil in my chest, but I kept my voice calm. "I have discovered something terrible. I can't let it go on."

She grabbed my arm. "Why...why, Gangle dear, I don't understand!" she cried. "What did you discover?"

I looked right into her face and delivered the line. "You're sleeping with Mr. Y."

Dead silence. Her jaw dropped. For a few seconds she remained, frozen, scarlet rushing into her cheeks, and then she let go of me, leapt up, and half-sputtered, half-screamed, _"What? I am doing no such thing! How dare you!" _

"But you must be!" I countered angrily, taking her fury as a confirmation. "The two of you don't sing. Maybe you did at first, but not anymore. I know because I heard. I suspected it, and so I listened after you went in, and I heard. You and Mr. Y had drinks, and he said something about keeping it all a secret. And you said nobody would suspect anything."

At this point, Ariel was off the bench and standing some distance away from me, white and trembling, with two furious tears in her eyes.

"If you simply must know," she quavered, "He told me to keep the _song_ a secret, and not to sing it for others. Before that, I tried on the gown I'd wear for the performance if need be."

The quickness and specifics of her reply sent a frightened shiver through my stomach. Had I really been mistaken? But, no! There was something else that she couldn't explain!

"You don't believe me, do you?" She brought her hands to her face. "You don't believe me!"

"I will believe you," I said, rising and going to her, "If you can explain this hickey to me."

I gave the neck of her dress a little tug and exposed the pink little mark. She jerked back as though she'd been scorched and retreated farther away, rubbing it and weeping.

"That's not what it is."

"Then what is it?"

She turned away and burst into tears that shook her frame like wind through a sapling. I stood in silence, watching her cry, nausea welling inside me at how I was hurting her.

"Signorina," I almost groaned. "Why are you letting him do this to you? Why?"

"I am not letting him do anything to me," she wept, not turning around. "He doesn't love me. He didn't before and he still doesn't now. I can't believe you think I would sleep with the Master. You think I'm a _whore_, don't you? A _whore!" _

"No!" I hurried over to her and brought her wet face to my jacket. "That is not true. But I know that, well, because of what he is, he would be very good at making you keep quiet about anything he'd want to do to you. And that is what he must be doing, because you are always looking so bothered, and with these marks on your neck..."

She jerked back away from me as though I'd struck her, and her tearstained-face darkened with rage.

"Because of _what he is? _What do you mean by that?"

It had to be said. I could not indulge her fantasies anymore. Looking into her swollen, furious eyes as calmly as I could manage, I said, "The man is a convict, Signorina. That is a fact. You can deny it, and deny it, but it will never change."

_"How can you say that? After everything he's done for you, you...!" _

I did not back down. "Because it is true," I insisted firmly. "You and I have seen the facts. I don't deny that he has done nice things for us, but why do you think he has really done them? He wants that Christine lady. You, me, your daddy, and everyone here, we're just part of the plan to get her here!"

"Shut up!" she screamed, shaking her head. "I can't hear you talk like this! It's _terrible! _ Shut up!"

"You know as well as I do that he is the Phantom of the Opera. You know it, but you are blinded by your love for him..."

_"Stop it!" _

"And I will not let him hurt you. You understand? If he does not stop this immediately, I promise you, _I promise you, _I will go straight to the police and your Daddy and tell them everything I-"

_SLAP! _said Ariel's hand as it came flying across my face with a stinging slap. For a moment I stood, dazed and blinking, cheek burning, and then I felt her shove past me and stalk off. I turned around in disbelief.

"You...Ariel..."

She didn't stop, nor look back. "Don't come near me!" she sobbed. "I think you're awful, and, and I... _hate _you! If you get Mr. Y into trouble, I'll _never forgive you!"_

And off she ran, past a booth, around a corner, and out of my sight into the darkness. Once her footsteps faded, there was a desolate silence. I was alone. There was nothing but the stars overhead, the abandoned rides, and the ocean breeze. My slapped cheek still hurt. I sat back down on the bench, not knowing what else to do, her parting words ringing in my head.

In all the years I'd known her, Ariel had never, ever been that angry with me, nor had she ever used such hateful words. She thought I was awful. She hated me. All I wanted to do was help her, and now she hated me for it. What was she going to do now? Would she tell Mr. Y, or her father? I didn't know, and at the time, I didn't care. I loved Ariel, and now she hated me. I wiped my eyes, which had started filling with tears, with my sleeve, but I did not cry. Call it Italian pride if you like, but I refused to cry over a woman's slap.

I got up and went to nearest telephone. I couldn't just sit around and brood. I had to go somewhere, see someone who loved me. After a brief exchange with the operator, I waited, heard a ring, and then a click, followed by a shuffle and Maria's voice. She sounded as though she'd been reading or something.

"Ciao. Per chi sto parlando?"

Hearing her voice made me bizarrely emotional, but I kept it out of my tone. "Ciao, Maria. Sono io, Greg."

"Greg!" she gushed, and my heart was warmed by how happy she sounded. "Hello! How are you tonight?"

I was honest. "Not very good. I need to see you, Bella. May I?"

There was a pause on the line, and then Maria said, simply, "Yes. Vanni is asleep."

The way she said it, and all the things she suggested with her tone made my heart beat wildly and filled my blood with fire. It had been so long -too long- since I felt this way. "Where should we meet?" I almost whispered.

The location thus given, I hung up, buttoned up my jacket, and headed into the night.

)

(

)

It was well worth the walk to the little back-ways joint that Maria had indicated. In the smoky darkness, we hurried to each other and kissed, and kissed, and after we were all warmed up, the action moved to a small, secluded, relatively secret area filled with boxes and old abandoned jackets. The Dr. Gangle in my head begged and pleaded with me not to do it, but I didn't listen. I was feeling hurt, Maria wanted me, the mood was right, and I was pretty weary of my self-imposed, perpetual abstinence. Right then and there, with a swishing of skirts and an unbuttoning of drawers, it all came to an end.

The last time I'd done it with Maria, it had been in Milan, Italy, 1897, in the vine-covered upstairs of a little inn called_ La Rosa Bianca. _Now it was 1907, and we were in God-knows-where Brooklyn, in a significantly less romantic setting, but for me it was heaven. Ah, to be wanted! To be held and enjoyed! Nevertheless, it would be very bad if I got her pregnant, so I had to practice careful self-control. Even after a ten-year break, I was still skilled. Maria enjoyed herself immensely, and right before I hit the top I pulled out and finished elsewhere. Madre di Cristo!

"Ah! Good job, Bello," Maria purred like a teacher praising a particularly good student, her face flushed and moist with sweat. "Even after all this time, you are a good lover."

I was still kneeling over her, my head buzzing with heat and my drawers still down. With my voice trumpet tossed over my shoulder, I could not speak, but I could smile in acceptance. We spent a few moments like that, looking at each other. It was a moment in which the world seemed free of consequences, free of inhibitions, and the only things that mattered were Maria and I. Of course, we eventually had to part; she teasingly admonished me to "put my thing away" and get off her, and after a final kiss, we went our separate ways in the dark.

Striding through Phantasma's main entrance, I felt defiant and proud. I felt like a man again. Laughing, I punched a sign for no reason. In my mind, De Rossi was roaring with delight. Gangle wept silently in the shadows, ashamed of my moral backsliding.

_Well, Ariel,_ I thought savagely, head held high, _How do you like me now? Slap me around all you like, and I'll...just...er, have sex with...Maria. _

My rationale was rather stupid, as it usually is when a man is angry or otherwise coming down from a major testosterone high, and it wasn't until some time later that I began to understand the stupidity of my behavior. It wasn't that night. The minute my head hit the pillow, I fell fast asleep.

_**(Gangle ends here for now.)**_

"See?" the prisoner sighed. "Trouble, trouble, and all because Ariel and I didn't understand each other. I can still feel her hand on my face. Don't ever get her mad, gentlemen. She has a mean left hook."

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS: **

**1. Don't ask me where I came up with the "Oscar" thing, or Miss Fleck's bizarre need to name things. I still don't really know. But it's funny. **

**2. Thank you for reading. Merry Christmas! **

0000


	16. Fleck's Epiphany

NOTE: Sorry for the slight delay in updating. There was a very sudden death in my church which sort of side-tracked me a bit.

Chapter Sixteen

Fleck's Epiphany

Celine's bridal salon just happened to be on the route that Mr. Whittington and Miss Fleck liked to walk whenever the weather was warm enough, as it was on that day, and the latter felt compelled, once more, to sigh over the beauty of the wedding dresses.

"I'm so covetous," she mourned. "But I really can't get enough of that dress in there. I love lace. If I had half the chance, my whole world would be covered in it, and all the men would be terribly flustered. See if I care, though. If it were up to men, there'd either be no decorations, or all the decorations would be antlers."

"You generalize, Ariel," laughed Mr. Whittington, watching her look longingly after the dress after they'd passed, "I happen to be a fan of modern art. What do you say to that?"

"I say you're one in a million." Miss Fleck tore her eyes away from the salon. "You're not like most men, Jay...and certainly not like Gregory!"

"Oh?"

"Indeed. He's all about cooking. Oh, yes. There's one correct way on earth to cook, Jay, and Gregory is the only one who knows it, according to him. I guess I'd let him cook anything. But if he wants to start decorating, I'll knock him out. You should have seen his little home at Phantasma. No decorations! I had to decorate it myself! Don't get me started on how he jumps to conclusions!"

Mr. Whittington chuckled.

"I love him very much, don't misunderstand. But how he ever jumped to conclusions!"

_**(Miss Fleck picks up the story.)**_

I hadn't been lying. I really hadn't been sleeping with the Master. That's the honest truth. My dear, stupid Gangle had drawn false conclusions from me and Mr. Y's conversation, although I can understand how he got confused at the "it wouldn't be good publicity if my employee and I were..." part. Here's what really happened that day:

I had tried on the white ballgown that Mr. Y had made for me, just in case I'd have to sing in Ms. Daae's place, and he was pleased with the way it looked, so much that he wanted me to leave it on when we practiced the song. He said it "set the mood". Then we had some water, to clear our throats. Mr. Y then told me to keep the song under wraps, as well as the fact that I was understudying, because not only would folks likely get jealous, but it would be bad publicity if he and I were discovered to be preparing an alternate singer, as though Ms. Daae were unlikely to perform or something. Then we sang. I guess Gangle didn't stick around for that.

It was horrid, hearing him calling Mr. Y a convict and threatening to turn him into the police-and tell Daddy- if his perceived notions of me and him having you-know-what didn't stop. He was completely wrong, on both counts! Well, rather, he was certainly wrong on _one _count, but the other...Mr. Y being a convict...oh no, I didn't want to even think about it! It was too awful. Ever since the day he gave me doughnuts and I saw the New York Times open on his bench, he'd been treating me differently. Nicer. Almost as though I might turn him in...oh it couldn't be! It was terrible. And then to have Gangle threaten like that!

Being accused of whorish behavior (even though it was kind of true) really hurt too, especially when Gangle didn't seem to believe my explanations, but I was also terrified at how he was, though incorrectly, detecting that I was having fun with someone. Mr. Y wasn't the one who gave me that hickey on my throat. It was Genevieve. And you'd better believe that would have been bad publicity if _that _got out.

But I'll talk about Genny and I later.

)

(

)

I had to go to Gangle and apologize. There was nothing for it. Almost immediately after it happened, I regretted it, and when Daddy fell asleep beside me that night I presently dampened the pillow with the tears of my contrition. He had his stupid prideful moments, but after all his years of kindness and friendship with me, he scarcely deserved to be struck and told that he was hated. I should have set him straight. But no, I flew off the handle, and now I got to lie awake, weeping with guilt.

When morning at last came, I got up earlier than usual, leaving Daddy to sleep on. I dressed, gave my sad face a quick look in the mirror, and headed over to the complex where Gangle's house was, misery bringing a heaviness to my steps. He would be awake by now. An old saying of Daddy's came mockingly to the forefront of my mind: "They that dance must pay the fiddler."

I knocked on his door and swallowed the guilty tremble in my throat.

"Eh?" I heard him shuffling, as if with clothes, within. "È qualcuno alla mia porta?"

"Um, it's... me," I replied feebly.

The shuffling stopped, and then continued for a bit, but he did not answer me. The oaken barricade of his door remained stubbornly shut. A good couple minutes passed. Still, he said nothing. I closed my eyes against the tears that were gathering on my lashes. This was what I had been fearing. He was very angry, so angry that he didn't even want to speak with me.

"Signorina!" he finally called, but his tone was like a stinging slap. "You still there?"

It hurt to reply. "Yes."

"Come inside, then. Door's not locked."

After all that, I didn't really want to anymore, but I knew I must. Humbly, I pushed open the door and shuffled in. Gangle's back was turned to me, for he was ironing a pair of pants, but even after I'd sat down near him, he did not turn around or even greet me. It was as though I were facing yet another oaken door.

"Gangle," I said sadly, after seeing him iron the same unwrinkled place seven times, "I am very sorry."

No reply. I might as well have been speaking to the wall.

"Did you hear me?" I was feeling desperate now. "I'm sorry. I don't really think you're awful, and I don't hate you. I should never have hit you. I love you."

At this, he stiffened and stopped ironing, then half-turned to look at me, his face surprised and sad all at once. That's when I noticed the pink bruise that spread from beneath his eye and across his cheek bone. I was completely horrified. Had I really hit him that hard? No wonder he wasn't talking to me!

"Oh!" I cried. "I really hurt you, didn't I, dear? It looks terrible! Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"

And I burst into tears like an idiot. He knelt down and hugged me, and for a few minutes I sniffled on his neck, my tears re-activating his aftershave and mingling into his cologne. When I finally pulled myself together, he wiped my eyes.

"The makeup will cover it all," he told me, still kneeling beside me. "And it doesn't hurt so bad now."

That didn't comfort me one bit. "It shouldn't have hurt you, not ever!" I wept on. "Oh, Gangle dear. Even if I didn't like the things you were saying, I hadn't a single right to hit you. I'm a _bitch._ That's what I am, a _bitch!" _

"No, no. You were just mad..."

"For Pete's sake, don't excuse it, Gangle. Please don't. Say it was wrong, but...but do forgive me."

His gentle brown eyes were still sad, but they brightened as he stroked my cheek and said, "It was wrong, but I forgive you." Then he swallowed and went on, "But, Signorina, I didn't want to be mean to you. I am just worried about you."

"I know."

"From this point on, I will not intrude. Your life is your life, and my life is my life. You're a grown lady, and you can handle yourself..."

But I had to confirm something that was still irking me. "Gangle dear, you don't _really_ believe that I'm sleeping with the Master, do you? I swear to you that I'm not. I wouldn't do that. Part of what hurt me yesterday was that you seemed to think that I was someone who would."

"If you swear it," he said seriously, looking straight into my eyes, "Then I will believe you."

"I do swear it."

He rose. "Okay then. I believe you."

"Thank you."

Gangle's little home wasn't much like Fleck Manor. It had the same layout, as did all the other freaks' apartments, but you didn't get a feel of old-world ancestry and years of accumulated, knick-knacky decorations. It was utilitarian; everything in it served a purpose. There were piles of Italian cookbooks, folded trousers, coffee mugs, and a few framed photographs. Like most men, Gangle wasn't much of a decorator. As a matter of fact, there were no decorations at all. He didn't even have curtains. As I sat there, watching Gangle go to make some tea, I resolved to knit him some immediately.

"Gangle dear?" I said as he ducked into a cabinet, "I will make this up to you. I promise."

All I could see was his backside. "Make it up?" came his muffled reply.

"Hitting you, you goose. I will make it up to you somehow."

"Ah, you are both sweet and sour, Signorina." He popped out of the cabinet with a tin of tea, shaking it and grinning. "Don't worry about it anymore. You want tea?"

I did, and we both sipped from warm mugs at his undecorated table. (I resolved to knit him a tablecloth as well) The morning sun was streaming in, buttery yellow, casting a lovely haze around the room and making my dear Gangle look pleasantly drowsy, giving a watery depth to his eyes, bringing a charming, European sensibility to his features. There was that bruise, though, and in that moment the thought of hurting him was detestable. Oh, why did I do that?

"I will make it up to you," I said again, because I really meant it. "I will."

He smiled. "Drink your tea, Signorina."

That's what I did, but my guilt moved me to start up some pleasant small-talk. "So, Gangle, how are you and Maria?"

"Ah, good," he replied. "Very good. Excellent, actually. We are getting on very well."

Something about the way he said it made me completely miserable.

)

(

)

Take it from me: if you ever want to make someone feel absolutely horrible for something they've done to you, forgive them as graciously and sweetly as you can, and then forget it. It may not have been Gangle's intention, but that's what happened to me when he forgave me like that. During breakfast, when people commented on the puffiness of his left eye, he just blew it off with some "ran into a door" explanation, and I didn't detect even a hint of bitterness.

"You'll want to be more careful, Gangle," Daddy admonished, his forehead wrinkling as he helped himself to the bacon. "People are likely to think you got clobbered."

"Yeah, really," added Damien. "Play it safe, pal. Wouldn't want Mr. Y to have to weld you a new face, too!"

Gangle shrugged. "Don't worry, don't worry. Ariel is always telling me to go slow in the dark, and from this point on I'll listen!"

Which made me hang my head and look miserably at my jam-smeared toast. Boy, was I rotten.

"So, the Trio here is going to learn how to fly a balloon some time soon, I hear," said Genny pleasantly, diverting the topic. "And I'm perfectly jealous. You three have all the damn fun."

"Genny," cautioned Aggie-Ann.

Daddy's face tightened; he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. "Yes, we are," he said grimly. "I'd much prefer that carriage, though. I stand by what I've always said. Man wasn't meant to fly! If we did, we'd have wings!"

This sparked an interesting conversation about aeroplanes and birds, and it eventually led into the theory of evolution, which made Aggie-Ann grumpy. Nevertheless, it was an intelligent, lively discussion in which everyone was soon partaking. It was during this discussion that Genny took advantage of everyone's diverted attention.

From her skirt pocket she brought a cherry lollipop. My heart fluttered, for I knew what was coming. Unwrapping it oh-so-delicately, she looked deeply into my eyes and made the suggestion. Then she brought the exposed, glittering ruby of cherry candy to her lips and lolled her tongue around it, slowly, maddeningly, and a sharp shiver of excitement began to start somewhere I'll not admit. She was teasing me. She was good at that.

"When?" I mouthed silently.

She made a circle with her hand and used her other one to make a little person, who sat on the edge and did acrobatics. After my aerial routine, that's what she was saying.

I nodded, she nodded, and then we continued eating breakfast, like nothing had happened.

)

(

)

Genny enjoyed baiting me and letting the anticipation burn. Today was no exception. There I was, up on my hoop, doing what I always did, but my whole body was infected with a magnificent pain. Was I ever hungry. In hindsight, it's pretty obscene to think of all the bodily sensations I was feeling in the full view of all those people. I mean, they had no idea, but if they did, they'd likely be charged an extra fifty cents' admission. I really do hope nobody noticed.

At last, the end of the routine, the crashing of applause, and I hustled into my dressing room, where Genny was already waiting, with my heart pounding. I locked the door. The clock said 10:30. We had twenty minutes.

"Ariel," purred Genny, wasting no time, and in a moment I smelled her smell and felt her breath against my neck as she grabbed me, kissed my temple, and felt my chest. "Take that get-up off."

The dressing room couch is where all the magic took place. In a frantic moment our clothes were off, and then our warm, unadorned bodies were together. Outside, I could hear the usual hubbub of folks walking around and preparing for the next performance, but all I could concentrate on was Genny, myself, and the fufillment of the longing she had kindled in me at breakfast.

If I actually described what we did to each other, it'd burn your eyebrows off, but I can say that it wasn't just me lying back and enjoying the ride anymore. As you can deduce, the encounters between myself and Genny hadn't stopped after that bathing machine episode. I had avoided cigarettes, alcohol, and all those sorts of addictions at Genny's party, as per Daddy's orders, but now, however, I was powerfully addicted to something else he couldn't have forseen, a newfound guilty pleasure that would horrify and hurt him.

So why on earth was I doing it?

I didn't even know why. Intrigue likely had a hand. For eighteen years, I thought I'd finally gotten to know myself, understand myself, but now, with Genny, I realized that there was this unexplored and previously unknown dimension to me called _sexuality_ that I had never given an ounce of thought. I was perfectly well acquainted with the cold, clinical facts o' life (dear Daddy had to cough up the info eventually), but I had no idea of what intense enjoyment my own freakish, malformed body, even if I were in total solitude, could give me. Genny did, though, and she was like my teacher, introducing this compelling new concept to me, her student.

The slow but steady climb to the top no longer confused me, nor did the ecstacy of climaxing scare me. I knew what it was and how to get it. I could lie back, let my mind fill with dreams of Mr. Y, softly instruct Genny as to what I needed and when, and doing the same for her. Twenty minutes was a bit of a squeeze, but it was do-able. By the time it was over, we were in each other's arms, skin against skin, belly against belly, the clock impersonally ticking out of sync with Genny's heartbeats. Her honey-colored hair had tumbled around her shoulders and curled around her breasts.

"Until next time, gorgeous."

I robed myself in blackness and feathers again, touched up my makeup, and headed out into Phantasma to re-assume my "Miss Fleck" duties in a much more gratified state of mind.

)

(

)

I felt really good up until I saw Gangle and Daddy again. Then I felt disgusting. There they were, smiling, ignorant, unknowing, my dear Gangle greeting me with a grin and Daddy -my dear Daddy- offering me a shaved ice.

"I forgot whether your favorite flavor was lemon or cherry," he said in his usual half-apologetic mumble, like it was all his fault. "So here's lemon."

I felt like an animal. "Thank you, Daddy."

His act was up next. I sat up on the bleachers with Gangle and licked my ice, and as Daddy went about the usual business of picking up dumbells and Ford engines, I watched his weathered old face of tattoos for signs of fatigue, my conscience squirming with guilt. In just a few hours, Genny and I would likely lie with each other again. I didn't have to do it. Genny wouldn't force me. I could do the proper, decent thing, and foster some self-discipline, focus on pure thoughts and stop letting myself indulge in this unchecked lust. I could bite the bullet and do as I should.

That's what Daddy did. Day after day, stage-fright, intensely private Daddy had to put on performances and fly about in hot air balloons and all sorts of things. He did what he needed to do, regardless of his feelings. On top of it all, he was sick with seizures. Poor Daddy. What was wrong with me? In light of all this, and with everything he did, I couldn't even muster up the decency to be good. Not even that one little thing.

"You okay, Signorina?" Gangle's hand came across my back. "You look sad."

I kept watching Daddy down below, a black and silver figure in a spotlight of yellow, but I answered, almost without thinking, "I am sad. Gangle, have you ever...found yourself unable to control things, even if you want to?"

"What do you mean?"

"The things you do, actions you find yourself doing over and over." I looked at him sadly. "Behaviors you can't renounce."

He was trying to understand, I could see it in his face. "You mean," he ventured, "Like things you know you shouldn't do, but you do anyway?"

"Yes."

His eyes clouded over with a sort of guilty pain. "I do. But...Signorina, you mean you're having this sort of problem? Ah, if I may ask, what is it exactly?"

As friendly and willing as he was, there are just some things too dreadful to admit, even to a friend.

"I don't feel quite right admitting it, but it's not very good, Gangle. I'm not in any trouble, or anything, but I feel as though I've been sucked in to something I can't escape from. I don't expect you to be able to cure it. You can't. But comfort me, please."

There was silence for a bit, other than the usual oohing and aahing of patrons and the flashing of camera bulbs, and then he leaned over and hugged me.

"Okay," he said. "I think I understand a little. I comfort you."

And for a few moments, I huddled in the warmth of his jacket, feeling genuinely comforted, until something shocked me upright. For in that moment, I remembered hugging Genny just a little while earlier, and in her place I imagined Gangle. In my mind, our two unclothed bodies were warm and wonderful, embracing, and...

I sat up abruptly.

"Signorina!" Gangle said. "You okay? Your cheeks are all red."

Thoughts were rushing into my mind, like a film without sound, or even images. Just feelings. Like a collage of emotions. The peace of a starry night. The tenderness of a hug. Fear. Confusion. Love.

"I don't..." My voice could barely be heard. "Know what...I..."

"Come." Gangle gently grabbed my shoulders and stood me up, but his voice was gentle. "Come, Signorina. Let me make you some food. You look sick. Come with me."

)

(

)

The kitchen of the Roman Colosseum Restaurant (or _Ristorante_, to quote Gangle) was the sort of place that would fill any food lover's heart with joy: the stone walls were covered in copper pots and pans, all manner of spoons, glass jars of herbs, and pasta was always boiling, steaming, in industrial-size cooking pots, tended to by a whole troop of young chefs (or _"incompeetent sons o' beetches", _to also quote Gangle).

I got a hearty welcome from the fellows when I entered, but when Gangle appeared behind me, it died off abruptly. Few people inspired such terror among the chefs. In he strolled like a big Mafia boss, inducing the lot of them to nervously fiddle with knobs and mince perfectly-minced parsley into paste.

"Cosa abbiamo fatto ora?" said one sullenly.

"Niente," replied Gangle, cocking an eyebrow. "Io vado a friggere alcune zeppole per Ariel."

My limited Italian skills, combined with the fact that we were in a kitchen, enabled me to understand that Gangle wanted to fry something called "zeppole" for me. At an abandoned stove, he plunked down a pot, filled it with oil, and turned on the gas.

"You will like this, Signorina," he told me pleasantly. "We will fry some _zeppole._ Go get some flour and sugar for me."

I did, and by then Gangle had amassed the rest of the necessary ingredients, which he whisked together with an expert hand, honed by years of working in his parents' restaurant. I stood up on a stool to watch him. Cooking, even if it was something as simple as frying zeppole, made him very happy. You could tell by the peaceful light in his eyes.

"See this, Signorina?" he said, lifting the whisk and showing me how the batter oozed down in ribbons. "That is the right consistency. Too thick, and it tastes terrible, like sponge of oil. Too thin, it won't hold. And now..." He dashed a little allspice into the batter with a gleeful, sneaky grin. "That is not traditional, but Mama did that all the time! No telling! Now, clap!"

I didn't understand. "Clap?"

"Over the batter. Clap your hands hard, warn the batter that it better do what you say!"

_Clap!_ said my hands as I struck them over the flour-speckled bowl of zeppole dough, and it was all so ridiculous that I laughed. Gangle nodded as though I had done something as typical as grease a pan.

"Very good, Signorina. Now, to the oil!"

By now, the chefs were giving us amused little glances as they went about their kitchen business. Once or twice I saw one whisper to another and point at Gangle.

The oil was bubbling. A small bit of dough thrown inside sizzled, browned, and floated to the top, which made Gangle pleased.

"Perfetto!" he said. "That is the right temperature. Now, help me put big tablespoonfuls in!"

In went sticky blobs of dough that eventually came bobbing to the top, golden-brown and tantalizing. I dug them out with a slotted spoon and onto a brown paper bag while Gangle put more dough in, and we continued in this way until all the dough was gone, and all that remained was the powdered sugar. I pretended that the zeppoles were little mountains and the sugar was snow, and sent a healthy little blizzard that bleached them white. Then the perfect, sugary little zeppoles went onto a pretty blue plate with a napkin.

"They are just right," said Gangle with the big grin he only reserved for properly-cooked food. "Now we eat them with coffee. I will put this oil away. You take the zeppole to a table."

He stopped his sentence just in time to hear a chef murmur, a little insolently, "Signor De Rossi ha un sacco di donne."

I knew it had something to do with Gangle and women, and it wiped the happiness right off his face. As if it were an afterthought, he strode over to the offending chef, who was making sauce, and took a taste.

"Too salty!" he grouched in a thick accent, waving the ladle threateningly. "More tomatoes! You fix!"

The chef threw his hands in the air and grouched back, "Che richiede troppo tempo!"

At that, Gangle's eyes narrowed into two mean little slits. "You fix."

I chuckled as I took the plate of zeppole out to a table.

)

(

)

Boy, were they good. Crunchy and sugary on the outside, tender and fluffy on the inside. As I used my sticky, sugar-encrusted fingers to pop yet another in my mouth like a slob, it occurred to me that Gangle was probably the greatest cook of all time.

Speaking of Gangle, he had stopped at a mere two zeppole and spent the rest of the time watching me engorge myself, smiling with deep, Italian satisfaction.

"Sooo, Signorina," he crooned, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "What do you like more? American jelly doughnuts, or zeppole?"

"I wike 'thepp-ah-lee!" answered the Fabulously Fat Miss Fleck, her mouth full.

Outside the tent where we were sitting, it was a beautiful summer day. The park was full, the sun was shining, the music was playing, and my beloved Gangle and I were sitting together, eating the food we had made, the aroma of coffee and worn grass wafting in the breeze.

I had very nearly forgotten about my troubles. "Mmm," I mumbled in contentment, "Fank you, G'ngle. Dis ith delish-ush."

"You're welcome. You feel better now?"

In that moment, I did. But would I still feel better later? "A widdle," I said, hoping it would last.

"I wish you would tell me what is wrong. You are making me nervous," said Gangle. He was clearly not satisfied with my air of mystery. "Is somebody hurting you?"

He had sworn to believe me on the whole "Mr. Y" thing, but it was clear that he still had his doubts. I had to change the subject.

"No one is hurting me," I said, and then I gestured to the uneaten zeppole. "You saving these?"

The sudden shift in topic obviously bothered him, but he followed along. "Ah, yes, if you don't mind. I am seeing Maria tonight, and I'd like to give her some."

Maria! That hot, boiling rage flared up in my bosom again, along with a terrible pain. I wished she didn't exist. I hated the thought of my Gangle going about with her. With anyone...

"What's the matter, Signorina?" Gangle must've sensed my unhappiness. "Something wrong?"

I crumpled the napkin in my hand, put it aside, and took a deep breath. I knew that the feelings in my heart would sound really stupid aloud, but I still felt as though I simply must voice them.

"Please, tell me what's..."

"I don't like that woman." The words flew out of my mouth, grouchy and bitter. "Not one bit."

Gangle blinked, clearly taken off guard. "Eh? Who? Maria?"

"Yes. I don't like her," I confirmed grimly. "Some time ago I promised you to tell you if she seemed like the woman for you, and my assessment is no. By no means. It's unreasonable!"

"Un...reasonable?" Gangle looked totally mystified. "Why?"

My anger intensified. Why couldn't he see this for himself? Were all men this dense?

"Because, Gangle dear, she's absolutely nothing like you. You are..." I blushed as I tried to find the word, and blurted, "Intense!"

His eyes darted around a bit, and then stared confusedly at me. "I'm intense?"

"Well, perhaps intense is the wrong word," I was quick to amend. "You are...you're a great many things! You like to think, and...you appreciate things, and... you see the beauty in things!"

He was still confused, but he smiled, apparently pleased, which made him look cute.

My heart was fluttering in my throat as I went on, "Er, yes, and in light of that, I think you can see why she's not for you. Think about it. Would she ever...look at stars with you?"

He hesitated for a bit, but then he shook his head. "No."

"That's right. She'd want to go dance, or sing, and not look at things. And, and...furthermore, the woman misquoted Poe!"

I inserted a dramatic pause there to really let that sink in, for that was, as you will readily admit, a very good point.

Gangle nodded slowly. "I see."

"I hate to be so negative, but, well, you did ask me, and I..."

"It's okay, Signorina, don't worry. You're right."

Out of all the things he could've said, that caught me off guard. "Er, I'm...right?"

He rose, took the leftover zeppole, and kissed my forehead. "You're right. Maria is nothing like you, Signorina. I must go now. See you later!"

A swish of cloth, a steady stride, one last waft of cologne, and Gangle was gone. What was it about the man's kisses that robbed me of my speech and reasoning? I sat there, completely breathless for a few minutes. Maria was nothing like me. A little smile tugged at my mouth. Thank God for that. But what did he...?

My thoughts were interrupted by a throaty chuckle, and when I turned around I found myself face to face with Genny.

"Oh, Ariel," she laughed around her lollipop. "That was rich."

Her sudden intrusion was jarring, but I took in stride. "Oh...was it?"

Genny sat beside me. "You'd better believe it. I wondered when you'd finally tell him off."

"Tell him off?"

"For flirting with you all the time." She looked in the direction Gangle had departed. "I had a half-mind to do it myself, but I guessed I'd leave it you. Italians. Horn-dogs all! And you even said 'unreasonable', just like your Dad. Same facial expression, too! I almost died!"

I was not following this at all. "Flirting? What do you mean, flirting with me all the time?"

Genny stared at me in disbelief for a moment, and then she slumped forward, cackling in amusement, slapping her knee. "Oh, Ariel, you are oblivious! Surely you must have noticed, even a little?"

"I don't understand."

"Alright, alright," she said, wiping her nose. "I'll clue you in. Heavens, you're cute. Well, Miss Ariel, others may not notice, but everytime you and Little Italy are in the same vicinity, he's always looking at you."

"Well, I should think..."

"No, no, not like that. I mean, really looking at you, all dreamy and smiley. You're sitting there, all pretty, reading a book or something, and he just stares at you."

Something like amazement rushed over me. "Does he really?"

"Sure as I'm sitting here," assured Genny. "And if that ain't convincing enough, consider this: how many folks here at Phantasma does he ever talk to, act friendly-like to?"

"He..." I thought about it, and stunned myself with my own anwer. "Me. Sometimes he talks to Daddy too, but he...mostly talks to me."

"Furthermore, have you ever seen him stroll around and look at stars and cook Italian delicacies for anyone but you?"

"Why...no."

There was a sage gleam in Genny's eyes as she sat back in her chair and grinned. "And you should have seen him at the Fourth of July party, when you two got hit by that wave. Man looked like he'd just won the lottery. I think I can say, beyond the shadow of doubt, that the man's in love with you."

It was incredible. It was as though Genny had found the final piece to a puzzle that I never knew existed, and now I was face-to-face with this romantic picture. Gangle, in love with me. I pictured us together in my mind. Little me, taking one of his dark hands and looking up into his gentle face, reclining against his chest. My heart went wild. But wait! What about Maria?

And then I was almost beside myself with anger.

"Don't get upset, Ariel," soothed Genny. "If you like, I'll tell him where to get off."

"No, no, there's no need. Never mind. I can handle it." I looked out into the bustling Phantasma crowd. "Truly, I can. Don't worry."

Her lips brushed against my forehead, but unlike Gangle's kiss, I felt no thrill. I didn't know what to feel. It was all so much, all at once.

"Alright, then. I'll see you later, cutie."

(

)

(

I didn't run into Gangle for the rest of day, and if I did, I wouldn't have remembered. I took pictures, chattered with birds, sat with King Charles, and did my general "act-freaky-and-eccentric" routine, all the while feeling as though my head had been misplaced and buried in some fluff. My world felt completely changed. I had considered the notion of Gangle being in love with me, and found it a reasonably agreeable one. Did I love him too? The way I did Mr. Y? For I loved both men, but differently.

When I was with Genny, I filled my mind with thoughts of the Master, lavishing love upon me. That was one of the reasons I had difficulty saying no to her. It's terrible to think about now, letting Genny think I was in love with her for the sole purpose of fufilling my fantasies, but that's what I was doing. I had sexual feelings for Mr. Y, and I was addicted to having them half-satisfied with Genny.

But Gangle? Or, rather, Mr. De Rossi? I'd only given sex with him a fleeting, wondering, what-the-hell sort of thought. It had spontaneously come upon me. There was also the subject of Maria-everytime she came into my mind, I wanted to annihilate her miserable existence. I hated the thought of her and Gangle. Hated it! I hated it almost as much as the thought of Mr. Y and Ms. Daae. It was a bitter blend of anger and jealousy.

That couldn't be love, could it? After all, "Love is patient, is kind: love envieth not, dealeth not perversely; is not puffed up; Is not ambitious, seeketh not her own, is not provoked to anger, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth with the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." Because, you know, I'm such a shining example of what a Catholic woman ought to be. Step aside, Saint Teresa.

"Somethin' wrong, Air-yull?"

I looked up from where I was sitting, dejectedly, on a bench, and realized that Aggie-Ann was watching me, both faces filled with concern. They must have just finished a show, for their banjo was slung across their shared back, and upon their heads of upturned brown braids sat little carnation blossoms. I hesitated before answering, "Yes, a little."

Religious though Aggie-Ann was, she (they?) was not unpleasant, gave good advice, and could be counted on to find the moral high-ground in any given crisis, which was probably why I felt free to confess my situation, evasively.

"How do you know that your love for someone is the right kind?" I asked, determined not to give much away. "I mean, there's attraction, and jealousy, and being friends, but what's the right way to love someone? The right way, the moral way?"

At this, both heads gave the other a significant look, and Aggie-Ann was compelled to sit down beside me. It wasn't every day that someone asked them what the moral thing to do was, and they seemed to feel their Christian responsibility keenly.

"Er, well," began Ann. "We know from the Bah-bull that love's got to stem from patience n' selflessness, an' never from jealousy or unrah-chiss-ness. That's first o' all."

"Yeah," piped in Aggie. "Love ain't all about fun times, on account o' it ain't always gon' be fun. Life'll get bad sometimes, an' sad. That's where love gets tested. People fer-get that, an' when the storms come, it all falls to bits, 'cause they never had a foundation."

That made sense to me. I kept Mr. Y and Gangle in my mind as they talked.

"An' you gotta feel safe with the person." Ann clearly didn't know much about men -at all- but she said this with deep conviction. "Ya can't be walkin' on eggshells 'round 'em."

"This makin' sense to ya, Air-yull?" inquired Aggie anxiously.

It was.

"Ah think we can sum this up with one thought. If ya ever got yerself in a jam, who'd ya go runnin' to fer help? You could ya trust?"

I see," I replied, but I was not wholly satisifed. "And to what degree would attraction factor in?"

It was clearly a bit of an awkward question to ask the pious virgin Aggie-Ann, but after a moment of deliberation, they had an answer.

"It'd matter some," said Aggie. "That's part o' love, too, after all."

"But it ain't the ultimate thing," added Ann, somehow magically in sync with Aggie, as always. "It ain't a good thng to base everything on. I think you'll find that when you grow t' love someone's heart an' spirit, you find that they look beau'ful to ya, even if they ain't."

There was still zeppole sugar on my palm. I rubbed it off, taking all this new information in.

"Erm, Air-yull?" ventured Aggie, hesitantly. "May ah ask why yer askin' us this?"

"Curiosity," I lied, and divulged no more than that, even when Aggie-Ann gave a skeptical silence. "Thank you very much, you've been very helpful."

)

(

)

Twilight descended upon Fleck Manor, casting shadows over the faded faces of my ancestors and over me as I sat at the table, knitting white curtains for Gangle, my heart filled with emotions too deep for words. At that moment, Gangle was eating zeppole with Maria. But he supposedly loved me. I mentally went through our shared history, looking for signs as I worked a handsome lace border into the curtain. Just a small one. Men get flustered if there's too much lace, but a little is fine, and after all, they're curtains.

I unwound some more wool and pushed my stitches forward. Well, Gangle always hung around, even when I was little. He couldn't love me then, so it would have had to have started recently. Perhaps when we started the Mr. Y investigation? Maybe some time after I told him how I loved Mr. Y?

And then something suddenly made perfect sense. If Gangle were in love with me, that would explain his hostility towards Mr. Y, his insistence that the man was no good, his fury over my perceived affair with the man. It was all coming together. Oh, what sort of detective was I? I was a real disgrace to the name of Sherlock if I hadn't seen these developments coming a mile off.

As for Maria, she was a girl he'd known once, back in Italy. Perhaps he was giving up on me. And perhaps this -my heart leapt- was why he was having trouble deciding to marry her or not.

Why, Gangle dear! (I cried within myself) You love me. I don't know how long, but you do, and I daresay I don't know what to feel. Dear, dear Gangle...

"Why, Ariel," came Daddy's pleasantly growly voice, and I saw that he was looking at me over his journal. "Are you knitting a wedding dress?"

A wedding dress? It took me some time to deduce that he was referring to the lacy whiteness of the knitting. "Oh no," I replied, dazed at my abrupt return to reality. "These are curtains for Gangle."

"Hasn't he got any?"

"No."

"Well then, that's very reasonable of you." Daddy returned to his journal. "But be conservative with the lace. Men get flustered if there's too much lace."

But by then I was no longer listening, for a interesting fact had suddenly become apparent to me. Out of all the wool I had at my disposal, out of all the browns and greens and much more masculine colors for curtains, I had chosen white wool and a small lace pattern. It was an epiphany. I looked out the window and into the night, stunned at the power of the human subconscious.

_**(Miss Flecks ends the story here for now.)**_

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. If you're wondering when Christine and her family will make their debut (and thus begin the "Love Never Dies" storyline), that will occur in Chapter Nineteen. In all, this story has 25 chapters, but it'll look like 26 because of the way the "Thanksgiving Ramble" acts like a chapter. So we've entered the "beginning of the end".

2. Thank you for reading "City of Wonders".


	17. Curtains

NOTE: As if 2011 hasn't had enough death in it, my great-uncle died (possibly was murdered) in South America on New Years' Day. Sorry for the late update. Let's hope the Grim Reaper lays off for a bit.

Chapter Seventeen

Curtains

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

Between the two of them, Maria and Ariel managed to keep me in near-constant mental straits. On the one hand, Maria, whom I was now clandestinely 'seeing' on a regular basis (despite our intial resolve), kept agonizing over her relationship with Giovanni while simultaneously thrilling me. Maria's one of those women who can completely numb a man's faculties. When her dark eyes fall upon you, you're as transfixed as a sailor beholding the most tantalizingly beautiful siren. You don't tell her; she tells you. Softly and beautifully, she tells you, tells you what a man you are, tells you things wonderful to hear. She is rightly named Maria, for she is just like the old Neopolitan folk song:

_Oi Maria, Oi Mari! _

_Quanta suonno ca perdo pe' te!_

_Famm' addurmi_

_Abbracciato nu poco cu te!_

_Oh, Maria, oh Marie! _

_How much sleep I lose over you!_

_Let me sleep_

_Just hugging you! _

And how can I ever begin to describe Ariel? How can I begin to tell of how she intoxicates and worries me? She comes to me for help, and suddenly this former gangster has become a knight. She inspires that sort of feeling in a man. So dashedly stubborn, but so tiny and sweet. I look into her watery green eyes and feel as though I'm with her no matter what cockamamie scheme she conjures up, to the very end, to the ends of the earth, but this secrecy stuff was really getting to be the limit. Even now, she still clung to her dreams of a heroic Mr. Y, and in my heart of hearts I had a fear that he was holding something over her head, threatening her somehow. I couldn't let her get thrown to the wolves, even if she seemed content to drop into their den.

They were like a team, Pescatelli and Fleck, unwittingly intent on my mental collapse._ Le donne si mettono piacere e dolore!_

What's more, Giovanni and Maria had a proposition for me. At a dinner we had together, they brought it up. I can still see it: Maria, flushed and dreamy in a dress of yellow, a buckle fastened around her little waist, innocently eating her fettuccine alfredo, and beside her was Giovanni. His was the appearance of a man deeply disturbed and suspicious as he looked from me to Maria. A stray, unslicked hair curled around his temple. When he ate his noodles, he took a long time twirling his fork, as though he must be ready to stab with it at all times, and all throughout the meal he rarely smiled, though he laughed a lot.

"So, Greg," he said insistently, as though I were trying to make a case against it or something. "We are not having much success in this city."

"Not having success?"

"No." He poured himself more wine. "And so, when our vacation is through, I am taking Maria back to Roma."

Maria ate on, her face not even faintly disturbed.

"I see. Sorry you had no success," I said.

"Does not matter," he grunted, shaking his head, almost desperately. "I have success in _Roma_."

"Of course we will have success," Maria chipped in. "Greg can help us."

Both myself and Giovanni were surprised, but Maria, in her beautifully elegant way, only sat back and continued, "Think, Vanni. Is it nice of us to go have success in _Roma,_ and leave Greg alone here in the United States? He is a good cook. He is family. I say that we bring Greg back to Italy with us."

Giovanni looked as though she'd suggested she shoot him in the groin, but he quickly re-assumed control of himself.

"Take Greg?" he sputtered.

"Yes, take Greg. Why not take Greg? What does he have to do here? Work in a circus?"

"He will not likely want to leave that Ah-ree-ella girl," my brother countered, eyeing me as though his life depended on my agreement. "She cannot leave this country."

Maria snorted and pointed her fork. "Ah-ree-ella! She does nothing for him. Always, Greg is telling me this. Not enough nerve. Too skinny. You remember how she was in the water?"

I did remember, but I almost felt compelled to get up and defend Ariel from everything she was saying.

"Even so!" countered Giovanni, "The Mafia..."

"Ah, the Mafia nothing!" Maria sat back and waved a hand in irritated dismissal. "That was _Milano_ in 1897, Vanni. This is _Roma,_ the Twentieth Century! What does the Mafia care about Greg anymore? They got a big organization to run."

There was an awkward silence. And when the three silent people are Italian, you know it's a big deal when they're silent.

At last Giovanni took a deep breath. "I am not against him coming with us," he said, even though the words seemed incredibly forced. "It is just very sudden. Greg would have to quit his job, and his boss..."

"Ah, fuck his boss," swore Maria, and the explicitive sounded downright weird on a woman's lips. "Greg is a big man. It's his life. Why should this boss have him by the _palle?"_

That's Italian for "balls", by the way.

"Let him make the choice!" Giovanni declared angrily. "I have not heard a word from Greg about what he wants! You talking for him now?"

"Please!" I interrupted. "I will make the choice myself. Not now, but I will think about it."

"Okay, Greg. You think it over," she said. "If you want to come, you come."

I nodded. Maria licked the sauce off her fork with a significant expression. Giovanni smiled nervously, rather like a man who has committed a murder but hasn't got the damndest idea what to do with the body.

_)_

_(_

_)_

Mr. Y taught us how to operate the hot air balloon on a clear, windless day, and one of the most vivid memories I have of it is the sight of the big yellow balloon bobbing against the blueness of the sky. Our fellow freaks were completely thrilled, even if all they could do was enjoy the thrill vicariously, sitting on newspapers in the crumbly grass. At my side, Ariel was quiet but smiling with excitement. On my other side was Alf, who, in stark contrast to his daughter, stared numbly at the balloon as though it were a guillotine, at which he would presently be killed.

Mr. Y was checking the sandbags, and when he was through he gestured to us.

"Alright, it's safe. Come in!"

In we went, and once situated in the basket Mr. Y explained the various mechanisms, how to ascend and descend, how it all worked. It took some time; more than once I heard the restless grumble of our friends on the grass, and Ariel was excitedly swinging her father's hand as she listened, but at length the preliminaries were through.

"Let's ascend, Dr. Gangle," Mr. Y ordered, gesturing to the thing that controlled the hot air, and I turned it.

"Throw out the sandbags, Miss Fleck."

She obeyed. Out they went with a thud, and our friends cheered.

"Mr. Squelch, you..." But after getting a good look at Alf's face, which was a sickly shade of cream, Mr. Y seemed to think it wise not to ask him to move, and merely said, "You just sit down and never mind; I'll take care of it."

The balloon, which had been slightly wrinkly, soon became rotund with air, and I felt a strange levitating sort of feeling under my feet.

"You're floating!" yelled Mr. Geddes, and his excited cry was duly echoed by everyone else as they rose, cheering, to their feet.

"Off they go!"

"See you later!"

For the first time in a while, Ariel's cheeks were dimpled with glee, and her eyes were filled with a child-like wonder as we, the Trio, ascended into the clouds. "Oh!" she cried, watching her friends get smaller all the time, "Oh, Mr. Y, it's just like the Wizard of Oz!"

"Indeed," he replied pleasantly. "I am the Wizard, you are Miss Dorothy, Gangle is the Scarecrow, and Mr. Squelch...well, he's..."

"Is the Cowardly Lion," moaned Alf. "Go on, don't spare my feelings."

Beneath us, Phantasma was transforming into a minature City of Wonders, with streets resembling long ribbons, and buildings that looked as though I could reach out and arrange them under a Christmas tree. It all took on this misty, ethereal look, as though we had suddenly become gods, and could look down upon the earth.

Ariel seemed to feel it, too, for there was a hushed sound to her voice as she observed, "We're nearly level with the top of the Ayrie now,"

So we were. Just a little ways off in the distance, the two eye-shaped windows were staring at us, reflecting back the image of us in our balloon. If we strained to look beyond it, we could see the pale blue outlines of Brooklyn's skyscrapers.

"Turn down the gas a little, Dr. Gangle, so we can stay level for a bit."

I did, and so we drifted about, revelling in the magic of flight.

"I guess God Himself doesn't even have a view like this," murmured Ariel, resting her arms contendedly on the edge of the basket. "I could stay up here for the rest of my life. No worries. Just fly away from it all."

"It does have that effect, doesn't it?" mused Mr. Y.

Ariel turned to him. "Mama used to say that flying, even if she was only on her hoop, made her feel special, made her forget about sadness for a while. I never quite understood her meaning until now. I think she would have loved to have been here."

The fear on Alf's face temporarily morphed into tenderness. "Indeed. Polly had no fear of flying. Only thing she ever feared was being tied to the ground."

This phrase brought an air of thoughtful contemplation to Mr. Y. He was quiet for a while, looking out at the view.

"You know, I never did tell you..." he eventually said, a little hesitantly, "Well, mainly because I never quite got the mechanics right, but..."

"But what?" asked Alf.

Only the masked side of Mr. Y was visible as he went on, "I intended to make a robotic arm for your wife, even before Phantasma was on the table. Mechanical limbs would be a fascinating thing to perfect. I always sort of intended to, but it never got past conceptualization. I thought I'd certainly get back to it. In fact, I decided to set a goal for myself and have it ready prior to opening day, but I couldn't have predicted that she'd die."

"None of us could have," said Alf, looking regretfully into the clouds. "But I'm pleased to know that you wanted to do it, sir. At any rate, she has her second arm now."

Ariel nodded. "Mama always used to say how God would replace her arm when she went to Heaven, and teach her to read, too!"

"And read too," echoed Alf with a bittersweet smile. "My father was the same way, always insisting that one day, God would straighten him out and cure all our fellow freaks of their maladies. 'God's the real Physician, Al!' That's all he said, every day of his eighty-one years."

"And if Grandpa were still alive today, he'd be ninety-nine!" chirped Ariel.

Mr. Y did some rapid mental math and asked, curiously, "Your father was born in 1808, then?"

"Yep! In Budapest, Hungary. Family name was 'Felek' then. Darn Ellis Island officials turned it into 'Fleck'. Didn't bother him until he looked up the word 'Fleck' in the dictionary!"

At this, both Flecks had a good, hearty, family laugh.

"Fascinating," said Mr. Y. "Do you know any Hungarian?"

Alf shook his head. "Both of my parents could speak it, but they never wanted me or my brothers to speak anything but English. 'Only thing lower on the social rung than a freak is a foreigner freak', that's what he'd tell me. He wanted us to be just like other Americans. But I know one phrase, one that he used constantly_: Ó, jaj!"_

"Which means...?"

"Alas! If he knocked over a bottle, _Ó, jaj! _ If he crashed into something, _Ó, jaj! _ It was almost like his catch phrase."

There was a chummy sort of silence that lasted for a bit, as we floated around Phantasma, lighter than air, and then Mr. Y started up again.

"So Mrs. Fleck has a second arm now?"

He asked it as though needing to verify a fact with Alf, like he was signing him up for something. As for Alf himself, he smiled slightly and answered. "She does."

"And you..." Here he addressed Ariel, "Will have your bent leg healed when you die?"

Ariel nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And your back, Mr. Fleck? It will be permanently straightened?"

"Indeed it will."

Mr. Y looked from Alf to Ariel. A beat of silence, and then he said, politely, a mildly amused glint in his eye, "Your faith is admirable."

That ended all our discussions, theological or Fleck-related, and soon it was time to descend to earth again.

"This hot-air ballooning wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," said Alf cheerfully, though he seemed eager to get down nonetheless. "I guess it was all this talking that did it."

Mr. Y pointed to the mechanism. "Certainly. Turn down the gas."

We began sinking, sinking, everything becoming normal-sized again, everything becoming familiar and loud and decidedly un-dreamlike again. Our friends screamed and cheered, gathering in a bunch beneath us.

"Oh," moaned Ariel, growing pale. "Back to earth again. How I wish I didn't have to return!"

I patted her back, but she didn't respond. Phantasma and a whole reflected world drifted in the green of her eyes, occasionally whisked out of view by her eyelids.

"I could fly on forever," she added, sadly.

)

(

)

On the morning of July 30th, Ariel appeared at my door in a walking-dress and jacket that was an unfortunate shade of blue; it brought out decidedly ill-looking circles under her eyes and infected her whole countenance with a shadow of anxiety. More unfortunate still was her choice of hat, with its profusion of wispy feathers that trembled fretfully at the slightest breeze, like a jelly in a hurricane. All in all, it was a self-sabotaging attempt to look smart.

"Gangle, dear," she said timidly, folding and unfolding a little piece of paper, "Today is the 30th of July."

"It is. What of it?"

She swallowed and replied, eyes downcast, "Well, today is the day that the ad specified. The day the person wants to meet us in the cafe, to give us the information."

I had forgotten!

"I guess you needn't come if you don't wish it, if you think it's a waste of time..."

"No, I'm coming along," I replied immediately. "I cannot allow you to wander about in the city alone, no matter what my feelings are. And besides, how would you be able to explain to your Daddy why you wanted to go to the Gypsy Cafe alone?"

The feathers on her hat trembled as she shifted her weight uncomfortably.

"See? You could not. You would have to tell a lie, or sneak away without telling him. And so, I will come with you, Signorina."

"Thank you." Ariel hugged my arm as though fearfully apologizing for something. "But...Gangle?"

"Yes?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me Signorina."

Not call her Signorina? But I had done so for years! I looked at her in surprise, half expecting her to be joking, but there was not a ripple of deception in the green sea of her eyes.

"Why?" I asked in bewilderment.

"Because I think it's...bizarre how we never call each other by our true names," she faltered. "You and me, we call everyone else by their true names, but not each other. From this point on, please call me Ariel, and I will call you Gregory, or Greg, or something like that. Please?"

There was something strange in her expression that made me agree at once, even though I was still confused. "Alright, Signorina...er, Ariel. I will try and remember."

"Thank you, Gregory."

This was the newest thing in a whole parade of strangeness coming from Ariel. Ever since I'd made her zeppole that day and she told me she didn't like Maria, she started treating me differently. Not bad, I think, but in addition to her already unusual behavior, she started acting downright jumpy whenever I came around. Sometimes I'd catch her staring at me. I shrugged it off, but now with this whole "call me Ariel" thing, I was starting to become convinced that something was seriously wrong with her.

I had to talk to Alf. There was just no way around it anymore.

)

(

)

I spoke to him that very day, immediately after his act was through. The asisstants were still in the process of dragging away weights and dumbells when I hurried over to the man (who was heading for his dressing-room) and grabbed his shoulder.

"Alf," I told him, "We need to talk."

His forehead scrunched in surprise. "Talk?" He looked over at his dressing-room door. "Er, now, you mean?"

"Yes, if we can. It's about Ariel. I think something's wrong with her."

A look akin to the dawning of realization spread over Alf's face of tattoos like the first rays of the sun, and with widening eyes, he breathlessly said, "You're noticing it too?"

He ushered me into his dressing room, and once he'd hung up his jacket he sunk into a chair beside me and gave full vent to his fears.

"I thought I was going insane," he groaned. "But it must be true, then. She's not acting like herself. Hasn't been for some time. I just can't place it. Has she actually said anything to you?"

"No." I had my suspicions, but I didn't voice them. "I have just noticed her acting strange, like you said. Jumpy, sick-looking, frightened."

"That's how she is with me. I ask her what's wrong, and she denies it. I think..." Here he swallowed and became quite upset-"I think she's developing some sort of nervous disorder. All this excitement."

"You think?"

"What else can it be?"

Now, I knew that I must take Ariel to see the person who had answered the ad later, and with this thought in mind, I made a proposal.

"Listen, Alf," I said, slapping the man's shoulder. "Ariel may tell me what's wrong if I coax it out of her. Why don't you let me take her to dinner tonight? Afterwards, I'll see if I can get her to tell me what's the matter."

"That sounds reasonable to me." Alf nodded his head and looked at me like I was the greatest man alive. "Thank you, Gangle. I'll be pleased to reimburse you for whatever you spend..."

"No, no," I insisted, knowing full well I wouldn't spend a dime. "I will not accept money from you for helping her. She is special to me."

Alf's eyes misted up. "You're a stand-up guy," he growled emotionally. "A stand-up guy."

)

(

)

With the aid of a borrowed wig, an eyebrow pencil, a headscarf, and an old dress, Ariel managed to work wonders with her appearance, transforming herself from Ariel Fleck to Prudence Puckett, a little Jewess. The line of her brows was altered, her makeup was completely unlike what she usually wore, and brown little curls stuck out from under the patterned headscarf. You'd never know that she truly had black hair. Hearing Ariel's voice coming from this stranger was amazing.

"Prudence Puckett," she sighed, leaning against the dressing room door. "I ought to have named myself Rachel Rubenstein. Do I look convincing, Gregory?"

She was really sticking to her word, and hadn't called me Gangle once all day.

"You do, S..." I almost said 'Signorina', and hastened to amend, "You do, Ariel. No one will ever know it is you."

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The Gypsy Cafe was full of dinner-time patrons as the two of us drew near. The windows gleamed merrily, looking like Christmas-time shadow boxes against the blueness of the dusk, with silohuettes of smoke and smiles within, and as we crossed the threshold, Ariel grabbed my hand.

"The person never said what they looked like, but I should think they'd try to be conspicuous somehow! Maybe we should ask about!"

But after only a brief bit of scanning, we noticed a lady in plain, dark clothes, sitting in a shadowy booth at the rear. Her hair was brown. She wore a lot of jewelry, gathered about her wrists in beads and bangles. She held a small handwritten sign that read: and !

"There she is," I whispered to Ariel, and I tucked my voice trumpet into my coat. "You do the talking. I will sit nearby."

"Okay."

We crossed the floor; I sat at a vacant table, and "Prudence" approached the woman. They shook hands, exchanged a cautious sort of greeting, and the payment -three dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece- was exchanged. Then "Prudence" pulled out her pad and pen, and the woman started speaking as she translated it all into shorthand.

What was said, I don't know. I couldn't hear very well, and I had to act as though I wasn't involved, but as I ordered coffee and took little glances in "Prudence's" direction, I examined the face of the lady. Where had I seen it before? It was relatively young, but was creased and shadowed with unhappiness. The eyes were nervous. As she spoke, she twisted her hands and snapped her knuckles, and "Prudence", though writing feverishly, was watching her with interest.

"Coffee, sir?" a waiter's voice intruded upon my conversation, and after a brief moment of surprise I ordered some. By then, "Prudence" was doing some talking, and the lady was answering. Then more writing. It looked like an interesting conversation.

I hoped it wouldn't last too long, for I had a feeling that I'd soon be expected to buy a meal, but as I finished sipping the last dregs of my coffee, "Prudence" rose to her feet and shook the lady's hand. They were through. The customary bows and goodbyes, and then the lady pressed by me with a waft of perfume, squeezed around an entering party, and was quickly gone.

Mer-cy me!" breathed Ariel in awe, her little scarved head bobbing merrily. "Oh, Gregory, I felt just like a real spy!"

"Me too," I replied. "But you must tell me everything you learned."

Her merriment dimmed as she looked at her papers, as though they weren't particularly exciting. "Well, some of it we knew," she said matter-of-factly, shrugging. "But there are a few other things we didn't."

Her demeanor confused me. "You don't seem very excited, Signori...er, Ariel."

"Oh, no, I'm...excited," she insisted, but her tone was like someone insisting that brown checkered socks were precisely what they wanted for Christmas. "Here, we'll walk along, and I'll tell you about it."

The streetlamps were being lit as the two of us left the restaurant and headed down the sidewalk. I still see the sight, even to this very day: the dusk was falling across the street and misting over the windows, and the flames cast little pools of light that gleamed on the coats of the horse teams and glistened in Ariel's eyes. It was an evening when you felt as though everything could be made right somehow. I don't even understand what I'm trying to say.

Anyhow, Ariel dove right into what she'd learned, though she didn't look at me when she said it.

"First of all, the lady used to work in the Opera Populaire as a janitor lady, but she was always interested in the Opera Ghost and did all sorts of prying. Rather like us!"

"Ah. She is Sherlock too."

"Eh? Oh, yes, of course. Sherlock." Ariel momentarily lost momentum but went on. "Well, anyhow, she actually got to go into the Opera Ghost's lair, and took a lot of his things. His writings."

"Like a diary?"

"Sort of." Her voice grew increasingly disinterested; it was strange. "She told me lots of things about its contents."

Here she stopped, and I had to encourage her to go on. "Well? Tell me!"

"It turns out that the Opera Ghost wanted Christine to be famous because he loved her. He had loved her and her voice for a long time. He loved her so much that it became twisted; he murdered and destroyed anything that got in her way. He even almost destroyed her when she turned away from him. His love was that intense."

"Go on, go on!"

She swallowed. "She also told me that his lair was filled with amazing inventions. He was interested in robotics, little things, alternate modes of travel, coins, styles of buildings, Persian motifs..."

"And?"

She stopped walking and murmured, almost hopelessly, "And he had an automaton of her behind a curtain."

And in that moment I understood why she was not happy. Rather than present evidence to the contrary, this lady's information had essentially confirmed that Mr. Y was the Opera Ghost. How much more similar could the two be? The inventions, the interests, the appearance, the same knack for making Christine Daae automatons! One could not possibly draw a different conclusion.

"And so that ends our research, doesn't it?" I said.

Her eyes watered in despair for a moment, but then, all at once, they hardened, as if a winter gale had suddenly frozen them. She kept walking, and said nothing, looking like a lost little stranger in her borrowed costume.

I was dumbfounded. Denial? Even now? I could've grabbed her shoulders and screamed in her face, I was so mad, but instead, I ignored it and moved on to what Alf had requested I do.

"Ariel," I said. "Your Daddy is worried about you."

That snapped her out of it. "Daddy?"

"Yes, him. He says you're acting funny, and he asked me to see if I can't figure it out. That is what I intend to do. And do not tell me nothing, or I am going to be very mad with you."

I did not like to be so stern, but I'd had enough of all this wondering.

"When did Daddy talk to you?"

"Today. And now, you must tell me the truth."

Standing there, she seemed to become smaller, and her eyes were scared. "Now?"

"Yes," I insisted, still very stern. "Right this minute."

Nearby was a bench, and after a few moments of frightened silence, she gestured to it. We both sat down.

"Okay, now we are sitting. Now you tell me."

In hindsight, I wish I hadn't talked so severely to her, but it did work. After one more trembling silence, she twiddled her Mama's ring and said, in a feeble voice, "I have been feeling very bad lately because..."

"Go on."

"Because I don't know what I am anymore."

Two big tears gathered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Ah, now we were getting somewhere at last. I dug out my hanky.

"You don't know what you are anymore? Why, Ariel?"

She took my hanky and wiped her eyes. "I feel like I'm living a double life. In the mornings and evenings, I'm Ariel. Plain Ariel. Nothing special. And then I put on my makeup and I'm Mr. Y's Miss Fleck, and I'm...different! I'm this other person. Nobody can see me. I feel as though my body doesn't belong to me anymore. It's just a thing to be used."

This was very troubling talk; I had not expected it.

"Your body doesn't belong to you?" I remembered the hickey. "What do you mean? Somebody hurting it?"

"No, not hurting it."

"Then what do you mean when you say it's a 'thing to be used'? That sounds very bad." I looked at her very seriously. "Ariel, if any man is trying to coerce you into anything, you cannot allow it, no matter who he is. You must tell me, and I will beat his ass."

My swearing surprised her for a moment, then she said, "There is no man, Gregory."

"You promise?"

She looked like she meant it. "I do. But, dear..." She grabbed my arm and drew close, "It seems as though all the world loves Miss Fleck, but they don't know Ariel. Miss Fleck is this fake dream, someone Mr. Y invented. Ariel is real, but no one was ever amazed by her. She's not special."

Something in the way she said that brought me back to the terrible night, ten years ago, when she tried to kill herself. There was that same despair, the same feeling that there was nothing inherently loveable or special in her. It hurt me.

"No one is amazed? What about me, eh?" Love, the love that would not let me go, it came rushing into my veins as I looked at her. "I am amazed by you."

And in that moment, looking into the watery greeness of her eyes, so much like a child's, I really was amazed by her, amazed at how, even now, I could love her this desperately. Even with Maria and Giovanni on the brink of taking me back to Italy, Ariel could still reduce me to this awestruck, starry-eyed pilgrim.

Something seemed to suddenly make sense to her in that moment, as she looked at me.

"I have always thought you were special, Ariel," I said, and when I looked at her ring, I felt compelled to add, "And your Mama did too, didn't she?"

At that, she wiped her eyes again.

"Oh, Gregory," she mourned. "That's the most painful part of all. She's gone."

"You've been missing her a lot lately?"

The grief in her voice was awful to hear. "Yes." She wiped her eyes yet again. "Almost more than when she actually died."

"More?" I hugged her, wondering how that could be. "That must be terrible. How long have you felt this bad, Ariel?"

"A long time."

"Why haven't you told anybody? Your Dad?"

"I thought I'd get over it," she sniffed. "And Daddy doesn't need to be burdened with my issues. He's sick. In fact, nobody needs to be. I don't want to bring sadness to everyone."

"Missing a mama is something that is hard to get over." I spoke from personal experience. "It is a hard thing to admit, but if you let sadness go on and on, it turns into anger, or something worse. I wish you would let me help you."

She kept hugging, a sad little bird shivering in the cold. I felt bad at the way I had insisted she tell me this sad news.

"I'm sorry for forcing you to tell me like this, but your Daddy..."

"No, no, I don't blame you." She sat up a little. "And I'll be the one to tell him. I won't get you tangled up in all our family problems. But, but...I'll tell you, Gregory, sometimes I just feel that all the people who love me are either dead, or sick, or...leaving somehow."

It was as though we were in that tunnel again, the one under the Ayrie, and she was telling me she didn't want me to go. I couldn't resist her.

"Well, I'm still here, no?"

For a long, wonderful moment, she looked at me, her face trembling, and then she smoothed her hand across my cheek, and pressed her lips against mine. Those lips! So soft and little! My heart leapt. For a moment she hesitated, and then she leaned in and deepened our kiss. I tell you, it was so wonderful that I could've cried.

And then, as abruptly as she'd kissed me, she stopped.

"Gregory," she breathed, blushing.

I was all ears. "What?"

She looked into my eyes. "I... made you curtains."

My lips felt numb, as did my brain and all my major mental faculties, as I looked at her. "Cur...tains, Ariel?"

"Yes." She stood up, and extended her hand, and the lamplight brought a tender beauty to her flushed face. "Let's go back, and I'll...fetch them for you."

That was one weird walk back, let me tell you what, but it was not an unpleasant one. And she actually did make me curtains. Knitted ones. Even had lace on them, though not enough lace to make me flustered. I hung them up that very evening. As I lay in bed, watching how the stars peeked through the clever little yarn-over pattern, I remembered her kiss, and what a funny -and maddeningly confusing- little woman Ariel was.

_**(Gangle ends the story for now.)**_

**Notes From Authoress: **

**1. Woot! We're headin' for the end! More twists n' turns to come. Next chapter (Fleck's) will also be slightly shorter than normal, like this one, then there will be "One-Armed Angel Part III" and then the "LND storyline" kicks in. Then back to Mr. Whittington, then the END! **

**2. This is the longest ANYTHING I've ever written. 120,000+ words? Where'd my life go? **

**3. I named this chapter "Curtains" because I had no idea what else to call it. **


	18. A Man In A Mask

BEFORE WE BEGIN!

1. Oh ho, beloved readers! If you have not read the previous chapter, "Curtains", do so before reading this, or you will be awfully confused.

2. Remember Mr. Whittington talking about how Mr. Y missed Fleck's baklava, all the way back in Chapter Two? This is the chapter with the incident he's referring to.

3. I've waited a long time to write the Mr. Y/Fleck exchange in this chapter. A long time...

Chapter Eighteen

A Man In A Mask

(Fleck picks up the story.)

Mama was buried in the churchyard that belonged to St. Anastasia's, and on a warm Sunday in August, Daddy and I went to visit her, arms full of roses. We were quiet as we walked. Churchyards just seem to have that effect on people. It was as though we were walking through time, passing the worn and mildew-covered stones of days long past, passing the weathered ones of the past century, coming at last into the clean and flower-covered stones of recent years, among which was Mama's. Daddy had purchased a plot next to Mama, and already had his name engraved on the large "Fleck" stone. Beneath the Orthodox cross, it read:

FLECK

_Alfred Ivan 1857-_

_Apollonia Ismene 1866-1905_

We put our flowers down beneath her name and stood there in silence, me and Daddy. It was hard, seeing Mama's lifespan written on a grave. It was even worse seeing the blank space next to Daddy's birth year. One day, they'd engrave a death year, too, and we never knew when that would come. All we knew is that it would.

"Hello, Polly dear," murmured Daddy fondly after a bit. "Big day coming for us, you know. Christine Daae is coming to Phantasma. A French opera singer. Season's just about coming to a close. It's going to be September soon."

"Indeed," I said. "Our very first year at Phantasma. And then, there'll be a second season!"

"God willing," said Daddy.

"And we'll remember you all the time."

Another moment of silence, and then we gathered up the old, dead flowers, told Mama goodbye, and started for home. We were pretty courageous for a bit, but we started dabbing our eyes, as we always inevitably did, shortly after clearing the first block. It was never overly sad going to Mama or talking to her, but it always hurt to leave her behind.

And speaking of hurt, there was always the aftermath of answering that ad. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. The Opera Ghost made _Christine Daae automatons_, for corn's sake, according to the French lady who gave me the information. Christine Daae automatons. As much as I wanted to give Mr. Y the benefit of the doubt, I just couldn't do it anymore. He was the Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. And now, he was inviting his lost love, Christine, to his new world of music.

This meant that he'd lied...well, no, he hadn't lied, but he certainly didn't lay his cards on the table. He had concealed this from us, all these years. Gangle was right. I had been blinded by my love.

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Gregory's 33rd birthday, as it turned out, was going to be on the same day Christine Daae arrived, the first of September, and I knew I had to do something very special. No tablecloths or impersonal curtains, lace or no lace. It had to be something that expressed the depth of everything I felt about him, a truly thought out, deliberate, sentimental gift that would make his heart sing.

For I loved him. It had taken time for that love to bloom; the seed had been planted long ago under the stars, and the tender shoot had slowly and stubbornly forced its way upward, but the petals didn't spread until he kissed me in the tunnel. Then they began opening slowly, coaxed evermore wider with each nice thing he did to me, every unappreciated way he looked after my safety, and when I kissed him in the city my love was complete. I may not have been able to articulate my feelings then, but they were real.

We never discussed that kiss, if you can believe it, but I guess when a girl kisses you and then immediately dives into a discussion about curtains, it's a bit disorienting. In the days after it, though, we were a lot friendlier. I began noticing things about him that I liked, things I'd never noticed before, like the way he smelled when he hugged me (had he always worn cologne like that?), and the gentleness mingled with affection in his voice when he addressed me. Handsomeness, too. It wasn't until I'd begun entertaining the thought of he and I together that I noticed how ruggedly handsome the man was, how very fine and sensible his features were.

And so, I, Signorina Sherlock, figured out the mystery of my own turbulent feelings at last. Aggie-Ann was right. If I ever got in a jam, who else would I go running to for help but my dear Gregory?

"Since when have you been able to read Italian, Ariel?" asked Daddy curiously, for I was looking through an Italian cookbook written in Italian. Aren't libraries swell? It was _L'arte di Mangiar Bene, _this cookbook of which Gregory spoke often and glowingly.

"Never," I replied. "But I'm going to make Gregory a surprise for his birthday out of this cookbook. Er, with the help of an Italian-English Dictionary, naturally."

"Well, isn't that nice!"

From what little Italian I understood, I could locate what I wanted: _Salsa di Pomodoro._

In English, that's _Tomato Sauce_, and as I looked down the ingredient list, I smiled. Gregory was always impressing upon the essentials of good tomato sauce making, the right balance of ingredients, and when I saw such words as _Roma pomodori, aglio, olio di oliva, sale, pepper, basil, cipolle, sugar, _and _Vino Rosso, _I knew I'd struck upon a winner. He'd love it.

September the first was going to be a very special day in more ways than one. Christine Daae was coming, it was Gregory's birthday, and I was going to tell him that I loved him.

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Mr. Y was beside himself with nervousness at Christine's impending arrival, and took every opportunity to drill us in what our duties were. He singlehandedly polished the glass carriage himself, installed some seat cushions in it, and was found pacing it in search of potential cracks more than once.

"It's solid, but with enough force micro-cracks can happen below the surface, and then all it takes is a shock to shatter it!" he lectured us hoarsely, as though we were trying to stop him or something.

The Ayrie's usually spic-and-span interior soon became the workshop of a frenzied man. It looked like an ink bottle got into a boxing match with a ream of paper, that's how feverishly Mr. Y was composing. We, the Trio, learned a whole litany of new songs. I can rattle my parts off right this minute.

_It's a funhouse where the mirrors all reflect what's real, and reality's as twisted as the mirrors reveal. And the fun is finding out what the mirrors show..._

_Ladies! Gents! You, good sir, and you, my friend! Everyone, time for fun! _(Nyeh-heh-heh, I chortle) _Here, tonight, ringing in the season's end...Mr. Y's last surprise! Starting soon upon our stage, the performance of the age...! _

Daddy, myself, and Gangle hummed it for days. Sometimes we'd all take turns humming it. Sometimes one of us would unconciously start it, and then the other two would finish it, not really thinking. It was scary.

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In memory of Mama, I baked some baklava one day, the day before Christine was set to arrive, and the supplies were sufficient for two trays. It was such fun. As I brushed the golden honey across the layers of phyllo, I remembered one of her trademark phrases.

"Your Daddy and me are like baklava and honey," she'd say right out of the blue, in the middle of cooking. "I always knew it."

"Indeed you are, Mama," I'd always reply.

That's what I thought about as I watched it bake, and as I ate it with Daddy later on. It's deceptively heavy stuff; after a few pieces we were full, and there was still a whole tray left. We were poking it and pondering what to do when there was a knock at the door; it was Madame Giry, come to inform me that Mr. Y wanted to go over the aria with me one last time.

Mr. Y. My heart grew sad, but I came up with a use for the extra tray of baklava.

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For the first time, I walked up the Ayrie's spiraling steps with no real feeling of excitement. My heart was sad. My tray of baklava felt cold in my hands. I knew that Mr. Y-the romantic dream in my mind-was a lie. The facade he wore was a lie. And what I was doing with Genny, secretly, even to this very day, was a lie. The world was just one big lie.

There it was again, as it had been for months: the Ayrie door. But before I could get close enough to knock, I heard Mr. Y begin playing within.

_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation..._

I stopped and swallowed at the cruelty of it all. It was the Music of the Night. It was the song that made me love Mr. Y. Memories of kneeling against the barn door in the starry darkness came tearing into my mind and heart, along with every dream I ever had for the two of us. I shut my eyes hard, but two hot tears escaped and slipped down my cheeks. On and on Mr. Y ignorantly played while I sat on the top step and wept silently into my sleeve, taking shuddering breaths and trying to pull myself together before I went in.

The last notes took flight and faded into silence. I heard a sip of something, and then a creaking bench. Then Mr. Y seemed to do some bored improvising. Rising, I felt my cheeks, hoped my eyes weren't all that pink, and knocked on the door, though all I really wanted to do was go right back down the stairs.

"Is that you, Miss Fleck?" he called.

Was it? I was starting to wonder. "Yes, sir."

I entered the Ayrie with my baklava, to find that Mr. Y had a great deal of sheet music, some of which I'd never seen before, spread out across his piano.

"I was cooking today, sir," I said, although I couldn't look him in the eye. "And I thought you might like some of what I made."

He turned from the piano inquisitively. "Did you? And what is it?"

"Baklava. It's Greek. It's made with phyllo and honey, layered almost like a sort of lasagna..."

"How kind of you." Mr. Y accepted the tray like it was a particularly ambitious school project and nodded politely, always the pleasantly distant professional. "We can eat it when we're through, which really shouldn't take long at all."

As he prepared the sheet music, I took a long look around the Ayrie in a way akin to saying goodbye to a beloved place from your childhood. I let my eyes linger on every beautiful little thing, every little invention, everything that made me admire my Master.

"Is something wrong, Miss Fleck?"

I mastered myself. "No, sir."

The piano gracefully sung forth the song I now knew so intimately, and as I sang it, just the way Mr. Y taught me how, my voice bore testimony to the thought that love never dies. It does, however, change. I would always care about him-I couldn't help it-but it would never be what it once was. His love was never meant for me; mine was never meant for him. This was the reality of it all.

"Thank you," Mr. Y praised when I was through. "You need no further teaching."

The sky was dark beyond the eye-shaped windows when the two of us sat down to the baklava, and despite the lights, a shadowy sort of something descended on the Ayrie. Beside me, Mr. Y cut himself a little test piece and tasted it.

"Mmm." As he chewed, his eyes widened, and his head bobbed with undeniable satisfaction, but he still endeavored to be as cool and clinical as possible. "This is very good, Miss Fleck. Yes, very good. There is nothing quite like this in France."

It was the first time I ever heard him admit that he was French, even though it was common knowledge. With a sort of perverse excitement, I gently prodded him on, asking, "What sort of desserts do they eat in France?"

"Creme Caramel, Creme Brulee, lots of cream." His rarely heard accent came out a bit. "Lots of fresh fruits with it as well. I scarcely had time for dessert, except for when I had to steal it, but I found that stolen sweets always did taste the best."

And _that_ was the first time I ever heard him admit to a crime.

Did I dare press on? "Steal it?" I ventured as he took a rather big forkful. "Hadn't you any money?"

Mr. Y couldn't speak while chewing, but his piercing eyes fixed me with a look halfway between amusement and pity. I was about to apologize when he swallowed and replied, "Of course I hadn't any money."

"Of course. I didn't mean to suggest..."

"Never mind." Mr. Y looked from his crumby plate to the baklava tray. "I am actually quite impressed at how well your father has kept you insulated from the realities most freaks face. And considering you've grown up in a freakshow, the achievement is doubly impressive."

My cheeks burned. "I..."

"Although your nationality likely is a factor; I find most Americans seem to think a fair salary and clean living conditions are a universal right." Mr. Y gave in and cut himself another slice as he talked. "Just the presence of two loving parents puts you in the upper echelon of the freak world, Miss Fleck. Add a home, American citizenship, a regular salary, friends, possessions that are your own, an education, and a culture surrounding you that is forward-thinking, and you may as well call yourself a princess."

My insides squirmed with shame, and I looked away, hating myself for the way I always seemed to say the wrong thing.

"And you are also quite beautiful."

The breath caught in my throat. I looked back at Mr. Y, overwhelmed at this unexpected and tremendous compliment. He thought I was beautiful. The realities of opera ghosts and automatons receded into the background. _Mr. Y thought I was beautiful._

"Ah. I didn't mean to embarass you," the man apologized, unflustered. "But I'll have you know that beauty also sets you apart. You are much more attractive than me. You have no need of masks. And so you have this as well, a big benefit. I never had anything like you had or have now."

In that moment, it occured to me that the Master and I had never actually had a conversation like this in the whole decade we'd known each other. Apart from my shyness and his polite distance, it was downright chatty. We were eating dessert together on a couch, for Pete's sake. Or, rather, Mr. Y was doing the eating. He really liked that baklava.

"Was it very bad in France?" I asked as gently as I could.

His eyes sort of gazed around as he finished chewing and swallowing. "Yes," he replied. "Very bad."

In that moment, I realized how lonely Mr. Y looked. It wasn't that he looked sad, but there had always been this mysterious, mystical, magical air about him that made me think he could do anything, rise above anything, write a symphony, save the day. He was Mr. Y! He was timeless. Somehow, I couldn't grasp that he was once a child, that he was likely prey to abuse, that he could be grieved. Watching him do something as mundane as eat on a couch and admit that his life was painful really shook me to the core.

He was just a man in a mask.

"Mr. Y," I asked. "Is Mr. Y your real name? I mean, you must have a first name, or something, but I don't think you've ever told us..."

"No." The Master's face and tone were like the shutting of a book. "I have never had any name other than Mr. Y. My parents didn't keep me long enough to name me. They were offered a handsome price by a local freak show, and that was it. My first name was 'Devil's Child'."

"Oh!" I groaned miserably. "That's awful. Oh, Mr. Y, were they very mean to you?"

"Quite mean. They marketed me as only sub-human, and as such, their treatment was sub-human as well. The scars from my beatings are still visible, even to this day." His eyes lowered. "The abuse was part of the act."

"How did you ever escape?" I cried.

Mr. Y picked at his baklava but did not eat it. "I murdered the man in charge and fled, and then I gave myself my name, Mr. Y. That has always been my name."

Coldness and misery gripped my heart.

"I apologize," Mr. Y said, giving my shoulder a little touch. "I'm disturbing you."

But another question was on the tip of my tongue. I looked into my Master's strange blue eyes, at a loss for how to say it, and then I blurted, "But...how...Mr. Y, how can you make music the way you do? How can you make the Music of the Night?"

And then it was his turn to be caught off guard. "The Music of the Night?"

"I heard you playing it once." Trembling, I admitted, "And I never forgot it."

Mr. Y didn't answer immediately, and when he did, he said only, "I am not even entirely sure how I make the music I write. It comes to me. I hear it playing in my mind, and then I compose it."

"Just like that?"

"Yes."

I had not realized it, but during this discourse we had drawn quite close to each other. There, sitting in the dim Ayrie, Mr. Y had never been more approachable, and yet so far away. No words. Just wordless gazing. His eyes were hypnotizing me. I felt unreal.

"Why the night, Mr. Y?" I heard myself ask, in a voice little more than a whisper.

He broke eye contact with me and silently struck a lever. With a rattle, the shades for the eye-shaped windows came down. What little light there was in the room slowly faded away. The strip of light on Mr. Y's face thinned, and thinned, and then it was no more. We were consumed by the darkness, the Master and I.

I could not see him anymore, but I still heard his voice, and could feel his presence, like a jaguar in the jungle.

"This is why." A moment of silence, and then he went on. "In the darkness, everyone is equal. Ugliness or beauty is of no matter. The darkness hides them both. In the darkness, you can be free. You can express yourself. It is the great equalizer."

His voice. If only I could describe it to you. It was warm, and confiding, but still had that smooth, cultured feel, the syllables like music. His voice was music. I felt myself helplessly giving in to his dark world, hanging on his every word.

"Freaks like us can readily agree that the light has done so little for us. It only exposes our maladies. But there is beauty underneath. We're like diamonds cultivated in darkness. That is why I write the Music of the Night. That is why, I believe, there is no other music like it. It is timeless. It does not give in to the fashions of the moment. It connects us together. It makes us free." He touched my hand. "It brings us the joy we've never felt before."

In the velvety darkness, I brought my other hand to Mr. Y's mask and felt the smoothness of the porcelain for a moment, and then, with a little moan of emotion, I threw my arms around his shoulders and kissed him. One of my cheeks pressed into the coldness of his mask as I did, and for an unbelievable few moments, I paid adoring tribute to my Master, kissing his mouth with an intensity that left me bereft of air. I wanted him. I wanted all of him.

And then I felt his free hand fumble in the other direction, snapping the lever, and with a grinding heave the window shutters began rising again, like the eyelids of God retracting in surprise. Slowly, the light returned. Slowly, Mr. Y's face came back into focus. He stared at me like I was insane.

I was absolutely horrified. In the dark, it had all made sense, but in the light, what was I supposed to say? What-and now he was wiping his mouth, blinking-what was I supposed to say to explain that? I couldn't! For a moment I was frozen, but then I leapt up. There was nothing to do but run.

"Wait!" His hand clenched around my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. I couldn't get away.

I felt like I was going to faint with shame."I'm sorry," I babbled stupidly, unable to look at him, tears in my eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Please sit down."

"I'm..." The world was hazy. "Sorry."

"You're working yourself into a faint. Come on now, sit down."

I suppose I did sit, or perhaps my knees simply gave way, because I felt the couch squeak under my rear.

His voice was calm. "Why did you do that?"

"I don't know, " I moaned, face in my hands. "I don't know. It was just that I...loved you then!"

There was silence for a while, then he spoke.

"I'm sorry."

That made me look up, and when I did I saw that there was regret in Mr. Y's eyes, as though he were ashamed.

"No, I'm the one that ought to be sorry." I said. "Please forgive me. I'll never do anything like that again."

"If you insist on being forgiven, then I forgive you, but I think the blame lies with me," insisted Mr. Y. "I ought not to have spoken so freely. I ought to have seen that you, being a young woman, and I being a man...I surely stirred up emotions in you that I shouldn't have. I am very sorry."

"So am I."

"From this point on," he told me, "We'll just forget about it. I'll never bring it up again."

I bowed my head. "Nor will I."

"You must never," Mr. Y cautioned me gently, "Mistake pity for love."

Meg chose an interesting moment to burst through the door, I'll have you know. All at once, there was a clatter, and with little time to prepare, she came waltzing in. I straightened up and patted my hair, hoping I didn't look too emotional.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Y," she trilled, her manner bringing a lightness to her dancer's form."Jai quelque chose per vous."

But Mr. Y was clearly irritated by her sudden entrance, even if she did have something for him. "Tu m'as fait peur!" he said with a severity that deflated her. "Frappez à la porte avant d'entrer!"

She awkwardly tucked a stray piece of hair back into her bun. "Je suis désolé. Puis-je vous le donner maintenant?"

Sighing, Mr. Y extended his hand. "Oui."

Apparently, someone had made a monetary donation, for he accepted three dollar bills and a fifty cent piece. One that had a slight dent in the side, like...wait! Three dollars and fifty cents? That's exactly what I paid that...

"Cela sera utile, non?" Meg said hopefully, twisting her coat as though hoping to redeem herself.

Mr. Y looked the money over. "Oui. Très utile. Merci."

She remained for a few moments with a slightly injured smile, obviously having expected a bit more adulation, but when Mr. Y made no further comment she bowed, gave me a nod, and walked off with far less enthusiasm than when she'd entered. The door shut with a sad clank.

When I said nothing, Mr. Y leaned forward, cut himself more baklava, and addressed me gently, "Interruptions aside, are you quite alright, Miss Fleck?"

Meg had been that mystery French woman in the cafe. That meant she had personal experience with the Opera Ghost. Mr. Y. Madame Giry, too! But why on earth would she risk giving out that information for $3.50? And-here my heart jumped-did she recognize me in my disguise? Surely she would have let on if she had! This discovery only reinforced the fact that Mr. Y was the Opera Ghost. My heart was heavy. It was time to say goodbye.

"Are you alright?" repeated Mr. Y.

I came back to reality, cold, cold reality, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm fine." I rose. "If you have nothing left for me to do, then good evening."

He bowed his head. "Good evening. Ah, wait! Your baklava..."

I didn't stop. "You may keep it, sir, since you like it so much."

The funny thing is that he didn't contradict me. As a matter of fact, he'd eaten half the tray singlehandedly.

When the Ayrie door shut behind me, the resulting thud was like the closing of a giant book, the closing of a gate, the end of a period of life. My love-my romantic love-for Mr. Y was entirely over.

)

(

)

When I reached the base of the Ayrie, I didn't immediately head home. When the door closed behind me, I sat down in the grass and looked up into the night. There they were, as they always were and always would be: the stars, glittering in the high heavens. Tonight, they reminded me of eyes. Not angels' eyes, but the eyes of ancestors and friends long gone. Grandpa Estevan. Grandma Lavinia. Uncle John. Uncle Wilbur. Uncle Charles, family whose photographs hung on Fleck Manor's wall but whom I'd never personally met. They could look down and see me. Mama, too. What did they think of me?

"That you, Ariel?"

I knew that voice anywhere. It was funny how Gregory always seemed to magically appear when I found myself immersed in contemplation. There he was, in front of me, his jacket tossed over his shoulder. He must have been out walking or something.

"It's me," I said, beckoning for him to come over. "Don't worry, I'm not sick or anything. I just wanted to sit for a while. What are you doing out?"

He sat down beside me. "Don't know. Felt like walking. It's a strange night."

"Strange?"

"Well, maybe not strange, but there's something in the air." He gazed up at the sky. "Stars don't look the same tonight."

"Mmm."

There was indeed a strange foreboding in the stars that evening. Only star-gazers like Gregory or myself can detect it, I think. Perhaps it was my natural bent towards romanticism, but I felt a little bit like Benvolio hearing Romeo wax poetic over the stars when we sat together, and in this state I felt free to unload my worries and discoveries.

"I don't love him anymore, Gregory," I said, still looking into the night, something like a sad serenity settling upon me. "You were right."

He perked up. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Y. I don't love him anymore."

The calmness of my tone juxtaposed bizarrely with the declaration, I'll admit, which is probably why Gregory got so bamboozled. In fact, he just sort of stared at me for a bit.

"You... don't?"

"I don't." With that, I took his hands and humbly confessed, "You were right all the time, Gregory dear, and I was unreasonable. Mr. Y is the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, or whatever his real name is. I didn't want to believe it. It's true. You were right, I was wrong." I leaned forward and hugged him, filled with contrition. "I'm sorry."

For a moment he didn't respond, obviously surprised, but then he tossed his arms around me and held me close.

"Ariel," his voice chuckled on my left shoulder, a blend of relief and joy. "I was wondering when you'd come around, Signorina."

I'd told him not to use that pet name anymore, but in that moment, all warm and enfolded in his arms, touched by the readiness of his forgiveness, I got all emotional and loved it. I loved him. But, of course, I didn't say so.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked.

I remained in his arms like a little child. "Things."

"Things?"

"Things."

His chest rose and fell with a sigh. "Ariel. So secretive. But are you okay? I mean, when you fall out of love with someone, it can be saddening."

The spicy aroma of his cologne was making me pleasantly drowsy. "I'm not sad, at least not anymore. But Gregory, you must know that tomorrow is your birthday and I've got a surprise for you. Two, actually. One is little and the other is big. Will you be free in the evening?"

"Two surprises?" He kissed my scalp and hugged me tighter. "I will make sure that I am."

"Good. You get one surprise in the morning, and another in the evening."

It was one of those unforgettable evenings, now that I look back upon it. The last day of the season was three days away, tomorrow Christine Daae was set to arrive, and as Gregory and I headed home for bed, leaving the Ayrie and its dreams of phantoms and operas behind us, my heart's turmoil became as calm and serene as the stars over my head. The City of Wonders was filled with anticipation.

(Fleck ends the story for now.)

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. Next chapter (19) is the third and final installment of the "One-Armed Angel" subplot, detailing the circumstances surrounding the death of Ariel's mother, Polly, and the significance of Ariel's emerald ring. It's *really sad*, not gonna lie.

2. Christine, Raoul, and Gustave make their debut in the chapter after the next one! (20) Yay! Once they arrive, you'll recognize the flow of the "Love Never Dies" story. The story thus far encompassed the "Three month gap" between the "Til I Hear You Sing Reprise" and "Christine Disembarks". Ah, I feel like I've gone on a grand journey! Thanks for tagging along!


	19. One Armed Angel, Part III

NOTE: Jay Whittington is back! And I've got to say, there is not a single moment of joy in this whole chapter. That's why it took me so long to write. It was so emotionally taxing that I had to watch Jeff Dunham skits on Youtube after each 20-minute writing stint. That said, have a swell time!

Chapter Nineteen

One-Armed Angel, Part III

Miss Fleck examined her hair in the bathroom mirror, trying to fluff it in a way that would withstand the flattening of her cloche. It was a reasonably warm day, bright enough to keep the electricity off, and in the main room Mr. Whittington sat in his jacket, ready to take her down to the prison for another visit to Mr. De Rossi.

"How many days left until his sentence is up?" he asked.

She did not even have to think. "One month and six days," came her voice, echoing off the tile, and then she appeared at the door. "When you're a bum, you've got plenty of time to scratch tally marks."

"Ready to go?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Once on the street, Miss Fleck did not engage in her usual conversation. She walked along, eyes lingering on the alleyways and trash cans with a pained sort of look, as if she were somehow afraid of them.

Mr. Whittington felt it. "What's wrong? You're usually much more excited."

She drew her coat tighter around herself. "Jay," she asked softly, "How much longer are you staying here on vacation? I mean, when are you leaving?"

"I planned to head back to England about a month from now," he began uncomfortably, but at the sight of her face he quickly added, "But I could always extend my stay some. I mean, I just can't...leave you flat before Mr. De Rossi even gets out of jail."

"Even if you were to leave right this instant, Jay, you've already done too much for me." She wiped her eyes and sniffed. "And that's just the trouble."

"Now, we've been through this before, Ariel. I'm helping you because I want to."

"I know, I know," moaned Miss Fleck. "But you can't do it forever. You've got to eventually leave. And if things get bad again, Gregory..." She trailed off and stopped walking.

"What about him?" Mr. Whittington asked.

The very notion of trying to explain seemed to overwhelm Miss Fleck. She closed her eyes and trembled.

"He has a terrible temper. Not towards me, but when he gets mad or threatened he becomes completely irrational. If I started starving, I can guarantee you he'd do whatever it took to feed me, even if he had to kill someone, or rob someone. That's just how he is. He always tells me, if anyone does anything to you, find out who they are, and when I'm out of jail again I'll hunt them down and kill them. He talks like he's in the Mafia again."

Mr. Whittington remembered the calm, supremely confident gleam that occasionally flashed in Mr. De Rossi's eyes, and did not put such behavior past him.

"It's the love he has for me." Tears gathered on Miss Fleck's eyelashes. "It makes him stupid. And he can't afford to act like that, not anymore! If he commits any more crimes after a fifteen-year sentence, I can't imagine what they'll do to him. But he won't let me starve, so he will. He must. And if something bad happens, and I lose him, I don't even know...what..."

"Ariel." Mr. Whittington gently grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I won't let that happen. We'll figure something out. Do you understand? I won't let anything like that happen."

"I'm just...so afraid...of being homeless and alone again..." she quavered helplessly.

"I know. But you won't be. I promise. Now wipe your eyes and smile." Mr. Whittington dug out his hanky and gave it to her. "Your friend will be upset if he sees you sad. Alright?"

She nodded and obediently brought a little joy back her countenance, and once they got to the prison she turned to him, a tender gleam in her green eyes.

"Jay?"

"Yes?"

"This."

She leaned forward and lovingly kissed his cheek, then his temple, then his eyelid, as gently as she could, and then she bit her lip and averted her eyes, pinkness rushing to her cheeks as she fiddled with her hair.

"Well, Ariel," Mr. Whittington managed to say after a moment of flustered surprise. "You make your point quite...er, vividly." He smiled. "But you're welcome."

Once back at his apartment, his face still warm where Miss Fleck's lips had kissed, he decided to continue reading her father's journal.

_**(Mr. Squelch picks up the story.)**_

The Birth of Ariel

The birth of Ariel is one of those major milestones that have left a tremendous impression on me. It was-and I do hate to be schmaltzy-a miracle. I remember my courageous Polly, propped up on a pile of pillows in bed, her hair down in a long braid, a nervous concentration in her eyes as she looked at the bedside clock. It was May 31st, 1889, and it had just turned seven thirty in the morning.

Not long after the big hand ticked past the twelve, her eyes shut and her face tightened, just like it had five minutes ago, and five minutes before that, and yet another five minutes before that.

"That's right, Polly," I whispered softly, letting her squeeze my hand. "Don't hold your breath through it, breathe deep."

Dad poked his wrinkly face through the door. I raised a finger, cautioning him to be quiet. He remained there, obediently silent, until at last Polly's contraction was over.

"I've told the others," he wheezed. "And Mr. Astley, too. Is there anything I can do?"

For even at age eighty-one, old Dad was ready to take marching orders. I'm so glad he was there; it felt reassuring knowing that a man who had witnessed five births (including mine) was on hand to help until the the doctor arrived.

I couldn't think of anything we needed at that moment, but Polly reached an arm towards him. "Grandpa," she groaned.

"Yes, dear?" Dad came ambling over and took her hand. "How are you?"

Her chest heaved as she earnestly complained, "Grandpa, it feels like...it feels like my insides are getting twisted."

"Yes. I know, dear," he said, for Polly had said that twice already. "But you'll be alright presently."

It was hard for me, seeing Polly in such pain and not being able to do much more than wipe her forehead and rub her back. When at last the door to Fleck Manor opened to admit the doctor, who arrived armed with his medical bag, I heaved a sigh of relief. He was a capable-looking fellow: sharp eyes, confident walk, a touch of gray at his temples. Here was one who'd seen innumerable births. He'd get us through. I was seized with the maudlin urge to weep and tell him I was so glad he was here.

Out of his bag came a big bottle of chloroform and clean rags, followed by stethoscopes and other things.

"Hello, Mrs. Fleck," he said pleasantly. "Don't worry, I have something here that will make you feel much better."

The unscrewing of a cap, the swishing of liquid, and the room was filled with the strange, heavy odor of chloroform. It made my nostrils crinkle. The doctor dampened a rag with it and brought it to Polly.

"This will take away your pain. I'll just place it here, on your nose, and you just breathe it in."

She did. For a moment she blinked, then her eyes unfocused, and then she dropped off into a sedated sleep. The doctor gently tucked another pillow under her head to support it and propped her feet up.

"She'll just nap until the child is born," the doctor reassured me, slapping my shoulder. "Don't worry about a thing."

With that, he sent Dad and me into the parlor, promising to call me back in to see Alfred or Ariel (depending on what gender the little one ended up being) being born. Until then, it was a lot of waiting. In came our freakish well-wishers with oranges and cigars, but I was too nervous to partake in any of the festivities. Today, I was going to be a father, after a long, nerve-wracking, excruciating wait.

I suppose the doctor thought he was assuaging my nervousness by giving me regular updates, but that made me even more nervous, and it wasn't until the sky outside was dark that the moment of truth arrived.

The doctor's pleasant, ruddy face appeared around the door. "Hurry in, sir!"

Nearly as soon as he finished I was in, having taken the 'hurry' part very literally. Dear Polly was still sleeping her unconcious sleep, sunk prettily into the pillows, although there was no longer a rag over her nose. The doctor sat on a stool situated between her propped-up feet. I grabbed her hand even though she couldn't feel it, my heart within me fluttering with nervousness.

It was the most precious moment of my life, seeing Ariel's tiny body slowly come out of Polly. First the wet little head, then shoulders, and all at once she was out, pink, wrinkly, and beautiful. A quick suctioning of her nose and throat, and she inhaled and let out her first squealing cry.

Polly was still fast asleep, but I kissed her cheeks and wept like an ass. "A girl, Polly!" I wept. "We've got a daughter, you and I!"

"And a fine healthy girl at that!" laughed the doctor, but then his eyes drifted down to her legs. "But this leg here..."

Ariel's one little leg was deformed, bent backwards, it seemed. The doctor gently bent it back and forth, watching her face for signs of pain, and at last he conceded, "That's bizarre, but she doesn't appear to be suffering from it."

It was with a truly overwhelmed heart that I accepted Ariel into my arms. I looked into her crumpled little pink face, shaped so much like my own, and couldn't believe how intensely I could love someone so fast.

I kissed her head. "You are beautiful even with a funny leg, Ariel."

"Ariel, hmm?" said the doctor. "That's a unique name. Spell out her whole name for me, will you, please? I've got to write out a birth certificate."

In graceful cursive, her name_, Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck,_ was written carefully in ink and set to dry by the window, and I sat beside Polly. Dad was soon allowed in, and he wept and rejoiced to see his little granddaughter. Then he stumbled off, cane in hand, to spread the happy news.

Mama Polly came out of the chloroform an hour later, blinking and confused, and I explained to her that she'd had the baby in her sleep. When she was coherant, I carefully gave her Ariel. She looked at the little bundle in her arm and was affected just the way I was, speechless and happy. Her eyes watered.

"Ariel," she cooed, her brown eyes looking down into tiny green ones. "You...You're so little, and, and I love you. But, Ariel..." Here she pulled a wry face-"You made my insides hurt a lot."

And so the Fleck family gained a new member.

The New Fleck Family Patriarch

Fairly soon after she was born, Dad started feeling weak. It became hard for him to move about, and he became progressively more confined to his bed as the days wore on. Soon he couldn't get up at all. The doctor couldn't make an exact diagnosis, but suspected that Dad's nervous system, which is affected by the spine, was finally starting to degenerate. Eighty-one years of being malformed was finally beginning to wear him down.

"It's amazing he's come this far," the doctor said. "He's had a strong constitution; that's what's pulled him through."

And so, in addition to having a newborn daughter, I had to take care of nearly all of Dad's needs. Eating, drinking, other things too disagreeable to list. It strange, taking care of the man who'd taken care of me his whole life, and seeing him become so weak and confused. I looked at his exhausted, wrinkly face, with faded tattooes, spots, and veins, and remembered a much younger man, a man who liked to yell about the Civil War and sing to himself in Hungarian, a man who often whipped my disobedient rear.

Now he was a helpless old man who could barely move, who didn't stand a chance at whipping my rear. Wheezing and coughing, he frequently called me "Wilbur" and asked where "Johnny" was. Once he confusedly asked for a cup of water, and then peed on the bed. Other times, he'd get grumpy and not want his dinner. Poor old Dad was becoming senile.

But one afternoon, as I gave him some tea, his unfocused eyes fixed on me.

"Al," he wheezed, his wrinkles quivering, "I want to tell you that I...have finished... the race."

I was getting used to strange declarations by now. "Of course you have, Dad. Good work."

He took my hand into his shaking, wrinkly one, and looked at me very seriously. "And I...I've fought the fight...and kept the faith."

Something in his eyes made me feel as though this wasn't just any senile rambling. I took his other hand and stayed with him. It was like holding the branches of a dried, hollow tree. He closed his eyes and trembled.

"Are you feeling alright, Dad?" I asked quietly, sensing something I couldn't describe.

He didn't seem to hear, he was so weak. "Al, she...keeps...coming in."

"Who?"

"And she...keeps...leaving through the window." His eyelids, thin and veinous, remained shut. "Leaving...me..."

"Who, Dad?" I went closer to him. "Who keeps leaving?"

"Lavinia."

A rush of fear and amazement trembled in my heart. He was seeing my mother, the mother I never got to meet. She was coming to him.

"I wish..." Dad's voice grew soft, almost hurt. "I wish she'd come back."

I looked across the cluttered bedroom, with its familiar knick-knacks, and watched the curtain blowing in the summer breeze. A spiritual sort of something was in the air. I felt unreal.

"Mother," I said to the silence, "If you're listening, please come to him." And to Dad, I quietly said, "And if she wants you to go with her, it's alright for you to go, Dad. We're all fine here. Me and Polly and Ariel are all fine. You've done everything you've needed to do. You finished the race."

He didn't open his eyes, but his grip on my hand loosened. For a while he murmured to himself, seeming to sense something from another world, growing weaker and weaker, and then he was silent. It was as though he had one foot on earth and the other in heaven.

I kissed his old head. "Go in peace, Dad."

And a few moments later, he did, with a final, almost triumphant last breath. I looked at the curtain. The breeze stopped blowing it. Dad lay, at peace at last, sunk into the bedclothes.

On a human level, I immediately felt his loss and sat weeping for a little bit, but on a spiritual level I was completely uplifted. He was alright. For over thirty years, he'd mourned the loss of Mother, mourned his three dead sons, mourned the loss of his brothers, mourned and mourned, and now he was finally alright, seeing them all again. He was in Heaven. He would never mourn again.

And so Estevan Fleck went to his well-deserved rest, and Alfred Fleck became the new Fleck family patriarch.

Al the Hunchback raises a daughter with the help of Polly the One-Armed

Ariel was a perky, curious baby who loved to ride on my back and look at books, even though she couldn't read them yet, and when she learned to talk, "book" was one of her first words.

"Book!" she'd gurgle, bouncing on my back, causing her diaper to crinkle. "Daddy, book! Alice! Alice!"

And so, I'd read a choice chapter out of "Alice's Adventures In Wonderland" for the eight-billionth time, until the happy day came when she could read it herself, and then I had to _listen_ to it for the eight-billionth time. It was monotonous, but it was precious to see my little green-eyed girl so happy. I can now recite "How doth the little crocodile" in my sleep.

Then she went through her "gift-giving" stage. She liked to take old household objects and turn them into presents: googly eyes on peach pits, glitter and paint on malted milk canisters, dried bean mosaics, and rocks. So many rocks. More rocks than, frankly, you can imagine. Ariel would give me something, and I'd smile and grit my teeth, looking at my chest of drawers and wondering where the dickens I could fit it.

My dear child-like Polly never felt like that. She loved it all.

"That's so beautiful!" she'd scream, looking at Ariel's pile of glue-covered twigs. "Oh, Alfie, look at it!"

Those were the days, days of stuffed animals and tea parties, days of trying to get Ariel to use the potty, days of putting on paper crowns and hitting pots with wooden spoons, days of pretending that glitter-covered rocks were the best gifts ever, days of trying to teach Ariel to play chess, only to have her organize the pieces into black and white "families" and having them "get married". Those were precious days.

As she got older, however, she started to wonder about our particular brand of life, as any perceptive child would inevitably do. She began to realize that not all daddies crawl and have tattooes, not all mommies have one arm, and most people don't sit in cages with other funny people and get stared at all day.

"Daddy," she asked one day. "Why do people come and stare at us? Are we very strange?"

The subject had to be explained so gently. I told her that we were special people who were born different, and people thought we were so amazing that they paid to look at us. That's how special we were. That seemed to make her happy. The realities of it all would come later, I reasoned within myself, zealous for my daughter's innocence, and when Ariel went about her little life as normal, I did not press the subject.

Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi were hired by our sister freakshow in 1897, when she was eight, and not long after that, Ariel almost succeeded in committing suicide. It was completely out of the blue. One day she vanished after dinner, and when I went into her room to look for her there was a note on her bed, written in her babyish handwriting, informing me and Polly that she hated her life and wanted to die, and that she would miss us. After an hour of frantic searching, we found her in a closet with a knife. She had slit open her palms, mistakenly thinking that palms, not wrists, were where the major arteries were.

When she awoke later, bandaged up, she cried and told us that some girls had said that all of us freaks were "poor people" and the sight of us "made them appreciate their normal lives". On and on my little Ariel cried and cried, saying the most heartbreaking, morbid, terrible things, things I never thought a little girl could even understand. Polly and I were completely horrified.

She was never the same after that. Her childhood seemed to end, and from that point on she was a serious little girl. She still read books and played games, but the old-time innocent twinkle never returned. A thoughtfulness entered her eyes. She talked less, and when she did talk it was filled with thoughts and deep feelings. Whole afternoons were spent reading books and writing things, star-gazing and brushing her hair.

Our bookshelves were slowly emptied of toys and replaced with volumes of Austen, Dickens, and Poe. The years rolled on. Before long, Ariel's body started to reflect her mental maturity. The chubby, childish cherub became curvy and womanly with the onset of her menses. Her face was beautiful instead of adorable. Her dresses got longer, her figure became corseted, her hair went up, she wore hats instead of hairbows. Before I knew it, her sixteenth birthday was fast approaching.

Party Preparation

We freaks love a party, especially milestone parties. In preparation for Ariel turning sixteen, everybody worked together to get a big pink cake covered in strawberries, cucumber sandwiches, shortbread, chicken salad, dilly beans, marinated carrots, turkey and cheddar rollovers, and two big pitchers of lemon-lime punch and sweet tea. In the icebox it went, to be saved for the party.

"I'm going to be grown-up at last!" sighed Ariel, grabbing Polly's hand. "Sixteen! Now I can finally dress like one, and be taken seriously like one!"

Polly playfully swung their joined hands, ever the enthusiast. "Yes, yes. Sixteen," she sang. "I remember when I was sixteen." She looked over at me. "That's when I saw your Dad, and, and I thought he looked so nice, and I loved him all at once."

Now, twenty-two years later, I was almost fifty and Polly was almost forty. I looked into my wife's ever-gentle eyes and still saw the pleasant youth in her face. Time had made her a bit chubbier, a bit wrinkled around her eyes, a bit grayed in her hair, but she would always look beautiful to me, even as an old lady. Me? Well, that's a tale for another time.

"Sixteen," said Ariel, becoming contemplative. "And you were only a year away from getting a wedding ring!"

Polly proudly poked her diamond ring, the very one I'd slipped on her finger on the Coney Island docks. "Yes! And you will too, someday."

"Perhaps." Ariel shrugged. "But if I get a wedding ring, I don't think I will settle for anything other than an emerald."

I chuckled at my daughter's notions, but Polly's face became an earnest mask of seriousness.

"An emerald?" she asked. "Um, are emeralds the green ones?"

"Yes, Mama. Emeralds are just like my eyes. Green? See? Sapphires are like the night sky, and rubies are like roses."

It was never a good idea to give Polly too much information at once. "But, but emeralds are green?" she repeated.

"Yes." Ariel hugged her. "You just have to remember my eyes."

Polly Acts Funny

After the "emerald" discussion, Polly started acting different, as though she were thinking deeply about a confusing subject. Usually quite chatty, she was quiet at dinner, and even when it was time to get ready for bed, she looked at the closet and paced around the room, her simple face filled with tension.

"Something wrong, darling?" I asked.

She put some things in her handbag. "No, Alfie dear."

That evening, she went through her closet and looked over her dresses, then she set out a hat on her vanity. She re-arranged the order of her dresses, hanging them on her stump and pushing things around, and when she was through with that she did the same with her shoes. After she pulled on her nightdress, she looked at her re-arranged little dressing area with the air of someone looking for a problem, and then she crawled into bed beside me. She let herself sink slowly into her pile of pillows.

"Everything organized?" I asked her, amused by Polly's funny habits.

Her voice was deeply serious. "Yes."

"Tomorrow is Ariel's birthday. Sixteen years, Polly-Wolly." I snuggled close to her, hoping to loosen up her gravity with some teasing. "Cake and ice-cream, too. What do you think of that?"

She smiled. "I think I'm happy." Her one arm wrapped around my neck, and we looked into each other's eyes in the dim lamplight. "I'm the happiest ever, Alfie, and, and I love you."

Even after twenty-one years, she could still melt my heart. "And I love you."

And, well, things got increasingly passionate after that. Polly pulled her signature "run the hand down my twisted spine" move, I kissed her little arm stump, and before long Mr. and Mrs. Fleck were in each other's arms, making love of the "here's to twenty more years, darling" variety.

When we were through, Polly lay against me, flushed and drowsily happy. I listened to her heartbeats and kissed her. This just never got old.

"Night, Alfie," she said softly, closing her eyes. "I love you."

That was the last time I ever heard her voice. The very last time.

Polly Vanishes

When I awoke, the warm sunlight was shining in my eyes and illuminating the bedroom. I yawned and stretched as much as my spine would allow. The bed felt unusually large. When I sat up, I realized why. Polly was not in it. Chuckling, I got out of bed and got dressed, just imagining what my excited wife was up to. Likely snuggling with Ariel, the birthday girl.

"Good morning, Daddy!" the girl herself sang when I crawled into the parlor.

Mrs. Beardsley had sewn Ariel a birthday dress of maroon silk with a collar of ivory lace, and made certain that the length just skimmed the tops of her shoes, just as a dress ought to fit a grown, sixteen-year old lady. In addition to the dress, Ariel had put her hair up just like something out of Charles Dana Gibson's sketches. She had never looked so demure, nor so completely ladylike.

"Happy birthday, dear!" I kissed her cheeks. "I take it your mother has seen you already?"

Her eyebrows raised. "I thought she was in the bedroom with you. I haven't seen her at all today."

It seemed as though Polly had perhaps gone to the bathroom or went to help set up the food, early as it was. I couldn't think up any other explanation. Still smiling with pride at the beauty of my beloved child, I went to go look for her mother, only to be almost immediately intercepted by Mr. Astley.

"Fleck!" he said hurriedly. "You need to come to my office. The Brooklyn police are on the phone; they say it's extremely important to speak to a Mr. Alfred Fleck."

"The police?" came Ariel's bewildered voice behind me. "What would the police want with Daddy?"

That's what I wanted to know, and so I hustled to Mr. Astley's little back office, where he kept his telephone, and upon answering it I was immediately interrogated by a sharp voice.

"This is Mr. Fleck?" inquired the policeman briskly.

"Yes."

"Mr. Fleck, your name and employer's telephone number was recovered from a card found on a Mrs. Apollonia Fleck..."

My heart leapt in recognition. Because Polly was illiterate, I always put a card with all her information in her handbags.

"Yes! Yes, she is my wife." Then I remembered that I was speaking to the police. Where had silly Polly wandered off to, that the police would be calling? "Er, where is she now, sir?"

"In the Brooklyn City Hospital. She was admitted approximately two hours ago after being struck by an automobile on Second and Main-"

"What?" I cried. "Struck by...?"

"An automobile, and her condition is very serious, sir. You must come immediately. We'll wait for you at the door."

I mindlessly nodded and spat affirmatives in a panic, and after I hung up the phone I felt numb. I had to hurry to the hospital. Polly was seriously hurt. By a car! Two hours ago. But how? Why was she in Brooklyn alone, of all places?

Mr. Astley peered at me. "What did he have to say? Anything wrong?"

"Polly's been hit by an automobile." The words sounded horrendous on my lips. "I've got to get her right away, and, and Ariel too!"

Mr. Astley hastily granted me permission to use his automobile, but I hadn't any idea how to drive, and as he himself couldn't abandon his business, I went hurrying to my fellow freaks, my heart in my throat.

"Oh, hello there, Alfred!" gurgled Mrs. Beardsley when I burst into breakfast. She set a cake down on the table, along with a whole slew of pretty decorations. Preparations for a lovely sixteenth birthday were well underway. The food from the icebox was being set up on lettuce bowls and china, and gifts were being piled in a corner.

"Good morning," greeted Mr. Y, and Mr. De Rossi waved, smiling. "Where is the birthday..."

Then he noticed my face.

Before anyone could inquire, I almost yelled, "Please! Can anyone here drive? Polly's been hit by an automobile in Brooklyn and she's very badly hurt! I have to get to the hospital..."

"Hit by an automobile?" Mrs. Beardsley gasped, and all the party set-up froze as a roomful of shocked faces turned to me. "When? How..?"

"There's no time! Please, is there anyone..."

"I can!" Mr. Y jumped up and tossed on his coat. "Where's the automobile?"

"Mr. Astley has it..."

"Right! Mr. Fleck, get Ariel. I'll get the car ready. The rest of you keep someone near the telephone. Tell Mr. Callahan there was an emergency, and tell the others."

Mr. De Rossi grabbed Mr. Y and nodded, wordlessly indicating that he was coming along too, and after hastily informing a completely bewildered Ariel, all of us hurried to the hospital, all thoughts of parties and birthdays forgotten.

Losing Polly

When we arrived, a doctor met us at the door and rapidly updated us as we hustled through tiled floors and went down harsh-scented hallways. Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi were detained in a waiting-room.

"According to the driver and the traffic officer, she made eye contact with the officer while he was permitting pedestrians to cross, and then she looked at some shopping bags she was carrying," he informed us. "She was still a ways off. He signaled for pedestrians to stop and traffic to advance, but she was still looking at the bags and didn't stop, and walked right into the street. The automobile that struck her was still a good distance away when the officer signaled for traffic to move, so he was nearly at full speed when she walked out in front of him. He tried to swerve, but she panicked and froze, and he hit her."

The mental image was too terrible to envision. "Did any of her body parts get run over?" I asked feebly, almost not wanting to know the answer.

"No. She was facing the vehicle when it hit her," the doctor explained grimly. "It struck her in the middle and caused her to go over the bonnet, and her head hit the windshield. They braked, and she fell off and hit her head again against the pavement. That is what the eyewitnesses are telling us."

We arrived in a long, dim, shadowy hall with benches against the wall. There were many doors, many dark rooms, and in one of them was my Polly, badly injured. I had never been so afraid.

"Is..." Ariel's voice was as frail as a child's. "Is Mama _very_ hurt, sir?"

The man closed his eyes and nodded, a gesture as pained and solemn as the death it foretold. "She has suffered catastrophic injury to the brain, not to tell of the internal bleeding, and judging by the uneven dilation of her pupils, she..."

This terrible chill swept across me. I don't remember much more of what he said, nor did I understand much of the medical terms, but I knew a hopeless situation when I heard one.

"So," I interrupted him, bracing myself for the reality I could not change, "She's going to die?"

He heaved a regretful sigh and nodded again. "We've done everything we can do for her. I don't expect she will live much longer than a few hours."

Ariel moaned and hugged me. I think the doctor patted my shoulder and said he was sorry. I don't remember. Everything faded and lost its meaning when he told me that Polly was going to die.

"Here." The doctor gently gestured to the door. "You can come and sit with her, you and your daughter. She looks bad, I must warn you."

In the plain white room, Polly lay limp and half-covered on the bed, and for a long, awful moment, Ariel and I just stared at her. She appeared as though a sudden frost had frozen her, depriving her of any flush, sinking her poor eyes into a face that was scratched and swollen where the glass had pierced her. Only her chest moved, at labored, ragged intervals, to force out a shuddering gasp of air.

Ariel went pale and grabbed hold of the doorframe. I went to steady her but she dropped, thankfully into the arms of the doctor, who led her, half-fainting, to a chair. As they attended to her with juice, I took her cold hand and kissed her forehead.

"I'll tell Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi to take you back, Ariel." My own voice sounded frail and strange to me. "It's too much for you. It'll be a long night tonight. I'll stay here with Mama."

She grabbed me tearfully, still dizzy. "Oh, Daddy, you'll be alone. No, I can't...leave you alone!"

"I won't be alone. Mama's still here. I'll come straight home to you after..." The words stuck and burned in my throat-"Later. You need to lie down at home and take this quietly."

For a moment it seemed she would refuse, but she nodded slowly. "Okay, Daddy." She wiped her eyes and looked over at her Mama. "But let me say goodbye to her."

When she was completely able to get up, my courageous birthday girl took up her crutch and hobbled across the floor to the bed, me following behind, and once there she gently laid her head on Polly's unfeeling shoulder, but when she tried to say goodbye she cried. That is something I could never stand, seeing Ariel cry, and seeing her cry at her mother's deathbed broke my heart, like a sword piercing my soul. I just can't describe it.

At last she rose, her poor face tearstained, kissed her Mama's forehead, and I took her out to Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi.

They rose from their seats when they saw us, questions in their eyes for only a moment. The tears in our eyes said more than words could.

I had to break the silence. "Polly," I told them, "Is dying."

Mr. Y sunk back into his chair again, but Mr. De Rossi rushed right over and wordlessly embraced the two of us, and the three of us huddled miserably together for a while.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," said Mr. Y. He rose and came over, his face pale and stricken. "To lose her like this...I am terribly sorry, Mr. Fleck. How long does she...?"

"Not long," I managed to say. "Please take Ariel home and take care of her. I'll stay with Polly. And when...it's time for me to come home..."

"Of course," said Mr. Y, anticipating where I was going with this. "You'll telephone us, and we'll fetch you, no matter what the hour. And we'll tell the others."

The nurses put Polly's torn clothing and shopping bags in a sack so Mr. Y could take it home. Mr. De Rossi put his arm around Ariel and led her away, and after a last moment of commiseration, Mr. Y followed. I returned to Polly's room. The attending nurse was taking her pulse, and when she saw me she sadly shook her head and told me, "It's getting weaker. Her breathing is becoming labored. She hasn't got much longer now."

As it turned out, Polly lived for only a few more hours, and I did not leave her for a moment. I spent those two hours with her in that dim hospital room, reclining against her shoulder with her limp arm wrapped around me, too heartbroken to even speak. Twenty-one years ago, Polly had come into my life like an angel-a one-armed angel-and gave me the only tastes I joy I ever knew. She loved me when I didn't even love myself. She gave me a precious child and two decades of the most tender love that a poor hunchback could ever hope for, and now she was dying. I shuddered, wanting desperately to be able to cry, but I couldn't.

What was I to do? Ariel, on her birthday of all days, was going to lose her mother. And Apollo and Frances! How could I even begin to break this news to them? To say nothing of the Christmas times and birthdays and anniversaries we'd face without her, and all the unknown years ahead, two parents without their daughter, Ariel without her mother, me a widower...just like Dad was.

Dad! I still couldn't cry, but my eyes swam and burned. In that moment I felt the loss of his guidance, and was astonished at his endurance. This had happened to Dad, too, but not after twenty-one years of marriage, but nine, and Mother left him with five little sons, not a grown daughter. And then, to have more than half of those boys die, one after the other! Lying there against Polly, I couldn't even conceptualize how the man was able to get up in the morning and face the world with anything akin to peace if this was how he felt.

Of all the things I could've inherited from him, looks, disease, anything, why couldn't it have been that endurance?

"I'll just give her a shot of morphine," whispered the nurse gently. "It will make the transition calmer for her."

In went the syringe, to which Polly did not react, and almost immediately I noticed a quieting of her breaths. They were still ragged and forced, but now they were weaker, and getting weaker every minute. Her chest rose with great difficulty, then fell, over and over.

At last, at around four o' clock in the afternoon, she breathed one last rasping breath, and then exhaled, like a sigh, and was gone. I was still hugging her when it happened. When her chest fell but did not rise again, I waited, dread twisting my stomach, but it never rose again. She was perfectly, perfectly still. I rose, trembling, and looked at her. Hours ago, this frozen, battered woman that was supposed to be Polly had been making love with me last night, cooing about how wonderful it was that our daughter was going to be sixteen, excitedly discussing cake and ice-cream, calling me "Alfie". I would never hear her say that again.

Even then, I could not make a sound, but inside me I was nothing but one devastated scream, watching them declare her dead, covering her face with the blanket, writing down official documentation. I was so lost that I couldn't even remember the number to telephone for Mr. Y, and they had to get me a directory. In fact, they practically had to do everything for me. At length, I crawled numbly out of that hospital with Mr. Y, leaving Polly behind.

Polly's Sign of Love

We were almost completely silent on the drive back. All around us, outside of the car, I saw people crossing the street, reading newspapers, laughing, waving to friends, living life as gaily as they always did. They knew nothing of Polly's death. The world, by and large, would never know, and carry on as always without her, as though she had never existed at all.

"Where is Ariel?" I suddenly wanted my child desperately. "How is she?"

Mr. Y turned onto our street. "When I left her, she was with Mr. De Rossi, in your parlor." His voice lowered somberly. "I made a point to keep others away from her. She is being very brave, but she needs to be alone."

We passed through the main gate, driving very slowly around the throngs of delighted vacationers, who were entering and exiting with all sorts of giddy little parasols and picnic baskets. Men laughed as their children dashed ahead, and sneakily kissed their wives. I closed my eyes, which had begun swelling with tears, and prayed that they would all have long, beautiful marriages, and never have to feel like me.

We arrived back to find Astley's Astonishments closed and filled with all the surrounding freakshows' freaks, grieving and standing about, stunned. The men muttered solemnly amongst themselves and comforted the weeping ladies, but when I entered they broke away and hurried over to me, mourning as loudly as ever.

"Alfred dear!" Mrs. Beardsley took me to her bosom and sobbed. "Oh, Alfred! That this should happen to the two nicest people I've ever known!"

"If there's anythin' we kin do fer ya," sniffled Aggie-Ann, both pairs of eyes bleary, "You'll tell us, woncha?"

"To lose a mother on one's birthday!" Mrs. Beardsley wept on.

"We'll handle all the arrangements for you," promised Tom, his piercings quivering.

Little Mr. Geddes, who had been on the M.A.N. committee and seen Polly and I marry, stood silently, tears in his eyes, and the two Pennysworth siblings sat sadly to the side.

"Please!" said Mr. Y to everyone. "I think it is best to let the Flecks alone tonight. As for all of us, we must help them by getting arrangements in order. Come, let's do as much as we can before closing."

Back at Fleck Manor, Mr. De Rossi was still with Ariel. When I finally broke away from the mourners and crossed the familiar old threshold, they were on the couch, grieving together. What would have been Ariel's birthday cake sat on the table, cut and on two plates, along with two half-drunk cups of tea. A card lay on Ariel's lap. Polly's shopping bags lay nearby.

"Daddy!" she cried, taking up the card with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Daddy, it was...all for me!"

I hurried over to her and took her in my arms before I even ventured to ask any questions. For a while, there was nothing in my devastated world but Ariel, my big girl, my precious child, the only link I had left to Polly, and I kissed her warm little head and cherished her existence. Mr. De Rossi poured me some tea, but I didn't want it. I just sat and held Ariel. As unreasonable as it seems now, I was terrified that something might take her away too, and then I would be utterly undone.

"It was all for me, Daddy," Ariel whimpered again after some time. "The reason she was out this morning. Look at this ring!"

A ring? I wiped my eyes and looked at her hand, and upon it was the most beautiful emerald ring I'd ever seen. It was a pure, glittering green, like Ariel's eyes. It was set in silver. Mr. De Rossi gestured sadly to the shopping bags and bowed his head, trying to help explain.

"It was going to be a birthday surprise." Ariel handed me the card. "Look at what she had the man at the jewelry store write for me."

On a cheery die-cut card decorated with flowers and fruit were the elegantly written words:

_Happy Birthday, Ariel! _

_I am so happy that you're grown-up. Sixteen years have gone by so very_

_fast. I can still remember when you were born because you made my _

_insides hurt so bad that I almost yelled. But you didn't mean to, so I_

_forgive you. Well Ariel I wanted this present to be a big secret, so I _

_sneaked away and got it. I think this ring is wonderful. I like it _

_because it looks like your eyes, because emeralds are green._

_It makes me feel happy when I see it. I hope you will look at it _

_and remember how much I love you. _

_Love, Mama. _

This final expression of Polly's unique brand of love ripped my heart in half. By the time I got to "Love, Mama", I could barely see, and when Ariel hugged me I was finally completely overcome by grief. It was the first time I ever cried in her presence. How long I did, I don't know. Time lost its relevance. All I could understand was the pain.

"Don't worry, Daddy," murmured Ariel softly. "I'll take care of you now. Boys bore me anyway, so I'll never get married and take care of you always. I love you."

I couldn't even speak, nor raise my head.

"And..." Here Ariel's voice choked-"We'll always look at this ring and remember how much Mama loved us."

Where I am now

Two years later, I'm "The Mighty Mr. Squelch", a performer in the "City of Wonders", and etween Polly's death and this tremendous promotion from freak to strongman, my life is completely changed. People seem to like me, even admire me. Any freak would die to leave their cage and enjoy the prestige I now have. I can walk, not crawl. I can claim a reasonable amount of human dignity. I can get a dish from a cabinet without having to get a step-stool and ask for help. Newspapers publish my picture. People ask me to sign their programs. Even with a recurring seizure problem, I'm something of a king as far as freaks go.

And I'm miserable.

I would never tell this to anyone, especially not Ariel, and certainly not Mr. Y, but the unadorned truth is that I would gladly-very gladly-go back to being a hunchback in a cage if only I could have Polly back. It was she, and not this fame, that brought me real joy, and now that's gone I have never felt that old joy since. All I do is wish she could share in all the fortune that has befallen me. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that Polly is at peace in heaven, reading and enjoying a second arm and meeting all the people who have gone on before. That, and Ariel.

That was a hard night, lying down to sleep in the bed Polly and I used to share, but Ariel snuggled next to me so I wouldn't be so lonely. In fact, she still sleeps beside me to this very day. I don't have the heart to kick her out. In the days that followed, going through the pain of the wake, the funeral, the burial, the packing away of Polly's dresses and hats, the nights I couldn't do anything but weep, my precious daughter was a tremendous consolation to me. She still is. She's my little rock. Nobody can make me as happy or as miserable as she can. There is so much of Polly's love in her, and so much of her goodness, too.

Just once before I die, I'd like to do something to merit the "Mighty" in my stage name, because, frankly, I don't think I've earned it. I don't find lifting hard and don't have to train much. When people call me amazingly strong, I feel like I did when Polly used to praise me for my reading abilities. It's not hard. I don't have to try. There's no real challenge.

But if this cannot be, then I wish that I will die just like my father did, and have Polly come, her mind free from the shackles of the mental issues that plagued her so terribly, to lead me away.

_**(The journal stops here for now.)**_

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. And now you know the significance of Ariel's emerald ring. Sorry for sucking the joy out of your universe.

2. BUT BUT BUT Christine n' Gustave are comin' right up next time! And Raoul, I guess. It'll be fun. You'll like it.


	20. The Soprano Of The Century

NOTES!

1. After this chapter, you'll never look at the "glass carriage" the same ever again. Every time you see it from this point on, you will laugh your ass off and everyone will think you're insane.

2. If you are unaware, more illustrations have been posted at my deviant art account (I'm littlelivewire), entitled "Adoring the Master" and "Tu Mi Fai Felice", among the usual bunch that are there.

3. As the story winds down, chapters will likely be longer. Please allow me a wee bit extra time between updates.

Chapter Twenty

The Soprano of the Century

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

It was September the first, 1907, the day Christine Daae was set to arrive, and it was also my thirty-third birthday. At breakfast I received the customary back-slaps and well-wishes. I was just beginning to wonder where Ariel was with my "surprise" when I suddenly heard the strains of a chirpy singing voice.

"Buon Compleanno a te! Buon Compleanno a te!"

Everyone turned around in their seat, and there was Ariel herself, coming through the tent flap, gleefully singing and holding a covered dish of something, her eyes gleaming. She came to my side.

"Buon Compleanno caro Gangle..." She set the dish in front of me. "Buon compleanno a te!"

Applause broke out all across the dining tent as she kissed my cheek and wished me happy birthday. Half the folks didn't know what they were clapping for, but that's just the way clapping is.

"And many more!" sang Mr. Geddes.

Genevieve leaned forward, eyeing the dish. "Open it! Let's see what it is!"

"I hope you like it." The pinkness of Ariel's cheeks made her eyes even greener than usual. "I worked on it for two days."

Two days! I carefully lifted the hot little lid, and the most heavenly-scented steam wafted into my face. The dish was filled with tomato sauce, and if the aroma was any indication, than it was certain the contents had never known the inside of a jar. I could smell the zestiness of the garlic and a warm accent of red wine. Little bits of green basil were mingled in that wondrous bowl of redness. This was made right, the stuff of fine meals, classic cookbooks, and dreams.

"She had to swear those cooks in the restaurant to secrecy!" laughed Alf. "Had to hide the simmering pot in a corner so you wouldn't notice!"

"Taste it!" someone practically roared.

Mr. Geddes clapped. "Ha, ha, yes! The moment of truth!"

"We gettin' the table flipped or not, De Rossi?"

I blew on a spoonful as ceremoniously as I could, sipped, and savored the flavor, the like of which sent an arrow of bliss into my hardened gangster heart. I swallowed, astonishment and rapture singing in my taste buds. It was everything you could ever ask for in a sauce. Flashbacks of my childhood days came rushing to my mind, days of running out to the veranda garden, days of cutting up baskets of warm, ripe tomatoes, days of coming home from school with Giovanni and smelling Mama cooking them, days spent dipping old breadsticks into sauce with her after hours.

It all came back to me, tasting Ariel's sauce.

"You _do_ like it, don't you?" her musical voice intruded anxiously into my memories.

Did I like it? Is Rome the capital of Italy?

"Ariel," I choked, looking into her eyes, for well-made food always makes me embarrassingly emotional. "I love it. It's perfect."

Apparently, gaining my approval was no mean feat, for everyone at the table applauded Ariel with a fervency usually reserved for Nobel Prize recipients. As for me, the very thought of my emerald-eyed muse slaving over a simmering pot for two days, all on my account, brought a lump to my throat, and I hugged her, loving her more intensely than I ever had before. Ariel! There was no other woman alive to touch her!

"So my first surprise was a success," she sighed, smiling, then she whispered in my ear, "But I do believe you'll like the second one even more."

Something even better than this sauce? If it turned out to be homemade cannoli or something, I would scarcely be able to resist dropping on one knee and asking for her hand in marriage.

"I'll tell you more about it later," she added, grinning, and then she sat down to her breakfast.

)

(

)

To say that Christine's arrival was making Mr. Y nervous would be akin to saying that a tsunami is damp. When the Three of us entered the Ayrie and made our traditional bow, he remained insensible at the piano for a bit, a cup of tea to his left. His hair was meticulously slicked.

It became necessary to rouse him. "Good morning, Mr. Y," I greeted.

His back twitched sharply at my voice, but he turned around slowly, revealing a face full of paleness and shadow, and two bleary, bloodshot eyes. I looked at his teacup again, which was sitting right next to a decanter, and realized that it was actually full of brandy. I didn't dare turn to the Flecks to get their opinion.

"Good morning." Despite his apparent drunkeness, Mr. Y was anxiously alert. "I checked the glass carriage about an hour ago. It's perfectly sound. Yes, perfectly sound. I gave you the map to where Ms. Daae, her husband, and her son will be arriving...yesterday?"

Alf took the map from his pocket and nodded. "Right here."

"Yes, yes, excellent." Mr. Y looked out the window. "And you know exactly where to go? Just in case...er... 'Oscar' makes an error?"

We assured him that we did.

"And...and also where they are to be dropped off?"

We assured him, yet again.

He smoothed his hair and looked about the Ayrie as though company would presently arrive, and after a moment of contemplation, he turned his piercing eyes to us and said, in a voice as solemn as the grave, "There must be..." Suddenly he did something between a hiccup and a burp, and he thumped his chest a bit. "Pardon me. There must be no mistakes _whatsoever. _I shall expect nothing but perfection from the three of you."

"And you will have it, sir," Alf replied in his humble grumble. "I guarantee it."

Then Mr. Y's eyes shifted to me, as serious as ever. It seemed he expected me to promise too. 

"I guarantee it as well, sir," I said.

Ariel was last. With a slight pinkness to her cheeks, she looked into Mr. Y's eyes and soberly swore, "I do as well, Master."

The man nodded, regarded us one more time, and dismissed us. I heard the brandy decanter clinking as we left, and once we were a good ways down, Alf began growling in high disapproval, just as we all knew he would.

"Liquor," he sniffed, his tattoos scrunched around his eyes. "Vile stuff. The things it does to a man! I should think Mr. Y would be ashamed to greet a lady looking as he did just now."

"I don't believe he's greeting her until tomorrow, or at least later," I felt compelled to correct. "We're taking Ms. Daae and her family straight to the hotel."

Alf was unrelenting. "My daughter," he said, in a tone that shut down the conversation, "Is a lady."

)

(

)

The notion of driving the glass carriage through Brooklyn was a swell idea on paper, but when our sparkly, suddenly fragile-looking wheels finally rolled out of Coney and crunched against the pavement of the surrounding city, it suddenly felt as though everything was poised to destroy us.

"Oscar!" said Ariel feebly, looking around at the automobiles and thundering horses going by, "Take us to the docks." She bit her lip. "And _do_ be careful!"

There was not a glitter of comprehension in the skeleton's eyesocket, but we lurched forward, bumped over the curb, and pulled out onto the street. I pushed the lever that made the carriage opaque. Soon we were just like another automobile, and Brooklyn went past us in a blur of horses, street signs, and mystified people dropping their groceries.

"Gee whiz!" a little boy yelled from the street. "Look, Ma, look at the..." His voice faded away.

Alf poked his head out the window and looked about. "This Oscar thing knows how to...I mean...he can notice traffic, or obstacles, can't he?" he growled frantically. "I mean, if something was about to hit us, he'd know enough to turn?"

"If he's smart enough to go to the docks," I reasoned, "Surely he'd be smart enough to turn."

Ariel nodded as though her life depended on it, which made all her feathers quiver. "Yes, that must be so. Mr. Y is very punctilious. We're just nervous, that's all."

And the three of us laughed a brief, rather hysterical laugh.

"I guess we've a right to be nervous. I don't trust automobiles." Alf sat back and grew pale around his tattooes. "I just don't trust them. And when we're surrounded by glass, of all things! It's unreasonable!"

More people were noticing us. Beyond the door, I could catch glimpses of ladies and gentlemen pointing at us, and the voices of little children could be heard as they dashed after us, cheering and trying to touch the back.

"Jer-u-salem crickets! If only people wouldn't let their children run wild in the streets! It's not a playground!" moaned Alf.

Panicking Alfs aside, it was an incredible experience, sitting back and letting the carriage (Oscar?) do all the driving. I felt like a king, even though America had no king, and perhaps Ariel was a queen, or a princess. Alf was certainly some variation of a bodyguard, what with his histronic worry-wart wailing about road safety and the potential fallibility of Mr. Y's judgment. I don't believe he was silent a single moment of the whole trip. Every now and again, Ariel rolled her eyes wearily at me, as if to apologize.

By and by the Brooklyn Bridge came into sight, rising importantly above the common-breed little tugboats and knots of frothing white foam, its great steel arms striped with cables. We fell into line (or, rather, Oscar did) with the carriages and honking streams of automobiles. The docks, our destination, was just on the other side. The stacks of a steamliner was just visible on our left side. Ariel pointed it out.

"Big steamliner, left side!" she declared. "I can see the smokestacks! What's the name of the ship they're arriving on?"

Alf had drilled himself so thoroughly on the particulars that he didn't even hesitate. "The Persephone. Can you tell if...?"

"No, all I can see are the smokestacks. Well, could. We've just passed out of being able to see them. What time is it, Daddy?"

It turned out to be fifteen minutes before they were due to arrive, and Alf immediately jumped on a whole new host of things to panic about. _Have they arrived early? That is very common, you know. Ariel, are you quite certain you can't see over the...? No, for Pete's sake, don't stand up! You're apt to crack your head, and then what would I do? Gangle, did Mr. Y ever mention to you if he informed these people that we were coming to get them? If they wander off the docks and we miss them...! _

Once we reached the end of the bridge, Ariel was able to discern that the steamliner was the only one in the bay, and no others were visibly approaching, confirming that it must be the Persephone. Before it passed out of view, she also grimly added that the gangplank had been out, and she'd seen people coming down it. I managed to console the horrified Alf with the fact (which I had learned firsthand with Mr. Y) that the passengers needed to go through customs before disembarking. That gave us a cushion of time to operate within.

"Oscar!" Alf wheezed, looking frantically at his pocket-watch, "Take us to where Ms. Daae and her family are, and don't waste any time about it!"

In addition to going faster, our faithful skeletal friend was also terrifyingly accurate, for not only did he speed up, he wove the carriage skillfully around crowds of people, horses, and stray dogs, pickle merchants and hobos. He did not stop once we arrived at the docks, but progressed straight to the customs house. Then the carriage came to a halt. When the wheels stopped creaking, the silence was broken by muffled pops of flash powder and cameras, mingled with the yells of well over a dozen reporters.

Alf peered out the window. "I'll be gosh darned," he breathed. "Oscar did it. That's got to be Christine Daae, right there."

Ariel and I squeezed on either side of him to get a look. He was right. It had to be her.

For out of the homogenous masses of gray top hats and jackets came a startling vision of beauty, a queen of sorts, clothed in a dress that was at once purple and scarlet, a neck pinned with a velvet sash, under which a bit of lace fell. Her face was partly obscured by a veil of netting. Beyond it I could see the suggestion of a tender visage, eyes lovely and kind beneath sensible brows, lips touched with a shade of rose that exactly matched the hat, which resembled something straight out of a French fashion plate, atop her head of chestnut curls.

_Mamma mia! _If I were Mr. Y, I'd keep a doll of her in my room, too! (But Ariel is still prettier)

Beside me, Ariel self-consciously licked her fingers and smoothed her frazzled hair. "What a hat," she groaned.

Christine's husband, Raoul, stood to her right, imperious and impeccable in a fine suit of gray, with gloves and a bowler to match. The trip had clearly worn down his nerves; there was an apoplectic twitch to his eyes and a general air of dissatisfaction that was evident in every aspect of his appearance: his posture, the lines around his mouth, the way he tapped his walking stick as he stared at our peeking eyes in our carriage. He reminded me of Giovanni, in a none too complimentary fashion.

An excited little boy, in a straw hat and a child's version of his father's attire, suddenly popped up between them. I knew at once that this must be Gustave, for while the father ignored him, the mother leaned down to his level and shared, even if only indulgently, in his childish excitement at the strange spectacle we were about to make of ourselves. He pointed at us and laughed.

"Surely," Alf wondered aloud, more nervously than ever, "Mr. Y told them that _we_ were to be their mode of transportation."

I hastened to adjust my rubber snakes, which were drooping a bit onto my neck. "No time to speculate now, Alf. We need to get moving on this before the cops kick in our doors. I've got the red hanky. Have you got your flowers, Ariel?"

"Yes, in my sleeve!"

"Very good. Now, on the count of three, we'll..."

"Wait, wait!" hissed Alf desperately. "What's the first thing I'm supposed to say?"

Curious taps and pokes began rattling on the sides of the carriage as I hurriedly whispered him his line, and at last we scrambled into place, counted down from three, and on zero Ariel struck the transparency lever. Suddenly the whole outdoor scene spread in front of us, blinding sunlight and all. It was tremendously effective. People fell back gasping like we were parting the Red Sea or something. We sat for a minute, smiling and composed, then Alf climbed out to do his bit.

There was not a tremor in his growly tenor as he approached Raoul, his hand outstretched, singing, "Are you ready to begin? Are you ready to get on? You're about to start out on the journey of your life..."

They began to shake hands, but a spark leapt from Alf's hand, just as was intended, and the man went staggering back. The reporters laughed and added insult to injury by blinding him with their flash bulbs.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he sputtered furiously, grabbing his hat.

"Ha!" a fellow with a camera laughed. "It's a publicity stunt for that freak show on Coney!"

It was my turn. "If you're ready then get in; once you're in then we'll get gone..." I snatched his stick, and before he could protest..."And who knows, once it goes, where you'll be when it arrives."

And with that, I snapped the cane, transforming it into a red hanky, using a trick I don't quite remember.

"This..this..." He ungratefully took his new hanky, looking from it to me with a face that could curdle cream. "This is outrageous!"

"It's amazing!" someone cried. "That Mr. Y is an absolute genius!"

Christine and Gustave touched it, exchanging awe-struck looks.

Last of all, out strolled Ariel, chirping, "It's a funhouse where the mirrors all reflect what's real..."

Alf and I joined in. "And reality's as twisted as the mirrors reveal..." We gestured to the carriage. "And the fun is finding out what the mirrors show..."

Poof! From out of laughing Gustave's sleeve came a bunch of flowers, which Miss Fleck pulled out and presented to Christine, bowing. She accepted them, equally enthused.

Not Raoul.

"This is unacceptable, do you hear me?" he roared at Alf as Ariel helped his wife and son into the carriage. "I will be taking this up with your employer, whoever he is! What are your names, anyway?"

Before any of us could reply, little Gustave began the first in a whole litany of questions. "Gee! Is this really glass, Mister?" he asked Alf as the man loaded their suitcases overhead. "How did you make such a spark with just your hand?"

The kid's enthusiasm loosened Alf up. For the first time all day, he smiled and chuckled. "I'm not entirely certain myself, young man."

"And, and..." His eyes fell upon me. "And what's that horn thing around your neck? Do you work at Phantasma? Is it very fun there?"

"Gustave, Gustave," murmured Christine gently. "Let the gentleman get a word in edgewise."

I tell you, that little Gustave kid singlehandedly saved the whole carriage ride from the abyss of awkward, sulky silence with his unabashed enthusiasm. He sat up on the seat and marveled at the Brooklyn bridge when we passed over it, the face beneath his sandy hair filled with boyish wonderment, and then he dove straight into a full fledged interrogation of myself and the Flecks. Within ten minutes, I think he could've written a comprehensive essay about Phantasma, based on the amount of information he wheedled out of us. He was so eager; it was hard to resist, and the only other alternative would've been to listen to Raoul gripe, so we, remaining professionally in character, were pleased to enlighten him.

At length, Gustave's interests turned exclusively to Ariel. Not even children are immune to her charms.

"You are a very lovely lady," he told her. "You remind me of a raven."

"Now, now." Christine touched his shoulder, smiling a bit embarrassedly. "Gustave, dear..."

But Ariel waved her hand in pleasant dismissal of her concern. "Why, thank you, young man," she cooed. "I am ever fond of ravens."

"I am too," Gustave replied. He bounced a bit, smiling as though eager to divulge a special secret. "I know the poem by heart."

"You..." The awe on Ariel's face was comparable to someone seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. Her meticulously penciled eyebrows flew right up into her hair, and her voice had an almost obscene breathlessness to it as she uttered, "Not..." Here she swallowed a bit, and went on. "Not Poe's Raven?"

"Yes, Poe!" he cheered. "Do you know it as well?"

Ariel smoothed her hair and bit her lip, quite overcome to have found a kindred soul in this little French boy. "I memorized it myself when I was a little child, too."

"Ce n'est pas possible!" cried Gustave, forgetting his English for a moment.

"Gustave," Raoul sighed with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

But the boy was too excited to mind. "I will not believe you until you follow after me, Miss Raven!" he challenged Ariel, sitting up pertly, a sporting gleam in his eye. "Come on, follow! _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..."_

_"While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door," _continued Ariel with a triumphant smile, pretending to knock with an elegant twist of her gloved hand.

Gustave's cheeky grin could stop a war. He went on:

_" 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door; only this, and nothing more.' "_

_"Ah! Distinctly I remember," _(Ariel breathed a sigh and looked out at the bay as though she truly was remembering) _"It was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor..." _

Both the carriage and the poem rolled on.

Such a performance had never been seen, nor shall ever be seen again, quite like Ariel Fleck and Gustave de Chagny alternately reciting and acting out "The Raven" in its entirety. Not a word was omitted, not a beat out of line. The effect was, frankly, quite numbing, not unlike watching a flaming zepplin plunging slowly to the earth, or watching a child be born. As we rolled along, off the bridge and into Brooklyn, Alf, myself, Christine, and Raoul could scarcely do anything but marvel in silence as the two recited on and on, as if they were outpouring their very souls into the poetry.

They finished just as we were slowly rolling to a halt beside the hotel.

Ariel's smoky, blackened eyelids drooped dreamily over her eyes as she moaned, _"And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door."_

Young Gustave did not seem young at all. He seemed possessed by an old soul as he intoned, as darkly as ever a child could intone_, "And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, and the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, shall be lifted..."_

They spoke the last word together, as solemn as a church bell_, _as the carriage stopped._ "Nevermore." _

I looked at Alf. He looked at me. Christine and Raoul looked at each other. We looked at them. They looked at us. We all, in due course, looked wordlessly at each traveling companion separately.

Ariel and Gustave took each other's hand as though they were going to shake, but they didn't.

"Thank you," Ariel told what was certainly her new best friend, "For saying it with me."

"You're welcome." replied Gustave, and then, all at once, he took his mother's hand (for Raoul had leapt out of the carriage already) and became a little boy again. "Hurrah! We're here! Wasn't that such fun, mother? I love the United States already!"

)

(

)

It was a mission well accomplished: no mistakes, no oversights, no tragic carriage accidents, and an impromptu poetry session a la Fleck. All we needed to do was head home.

Alf slumped over and fell asleep on the way back to Phantasma, his nerves shot, and Ariel draped her shawl over him. He was like a big tattooed baby with tired circles under his eyes.

"Poor Daddy," clucked Ariel softly. "He'll be powerfully glad to get back home. I guess the Raven tired him out."

The setting sun cast a brilliant orange glow, like fire, over our way. The road in front of us seemed to lead to a fantasy land where the mist was like the first rays of morning, and things like horses and milk carts just materialized out of it, like dreams. Perhaps Oscar was our guide. I stretched and leaned back, filled with a quiet but intense joy, although I couldn't quite pinpoint a cause.

Ariel seemed to feel it too. She glanced at Alf, and then her warm little head lowered onto my shoulder. The feather from her hat tickled my temple.

"This has been a strange day," I said. "But a wonderful day to have a birthday."

"And there's your second surprise later, you know." Ariel replied.

Her eyes were beautiful in that sunset glow, green and gold, like rare jade. I might have kissed her forehead, but with Alf napping just a few inches away, I couldn't. It felt wrong.

"When?" I asked.

"This carriage," she whispered. "At eight o' clock tonight."

)

)

)

"We did precisely as you said, Mr. Y," we the intrepid Trio were proud to declare upon entering the Ayrie. "Not a thing out of place."

Mr. Y's appearance had improved in leaps and bounds since we'd left him that morning. There was not a scent of alcohol anywhere. If it was, it was likely overpowered by the cologne. The Master was looking dapper in the finest suit he owned, a French garbadine, and his shirt and tie were the purest white, just like his mask. His shoes were shined, his gloves were impeccable. He could very well have been married in a get-up like that.

His approving smile was uncharacteristically friendly. "I knew I could depend on you, Mr. Squelch, and Dr. Gangle, and you, Miss Fleck," he almost sang, patting us each on the shoulder individually as he addressed us, and he stopped at Ariel. "And how particularly charming you look today, Miss Fleck. Is that dress new?"

Her cheeks reddened through her makeup. "It's...the same costume I wear every day, sir."

"Ah." He smiled and examined himself in a nearby mirror. "Very droll, very droll. Still, the effect is quite fetching."

A clearly irritated Alf opened his mouth as if to tell him off, but was interrupted.

"Tell me, Miss Fleck..." (Mr. Y was still looking in the mirror) "How did Ms. Daae look? From another lady's perspective, I mean."

The abrupt shift from her looks to Christine's looks seemed to drag a rake across Ariel's heart a bit, and when the memories filled her eyes with admiration, they were infected with a glint of pain.

"She was beautiful, sir," she said. "Just like her automaton, but alive, as though someone breathed roses and diamonds into her and brought her to life. Every bit a lady." Here her eyes grew a bit jealous. "And she had the most fabulous hat I've ever seen."

"She would."

Ariel frowned. "Hmm?"

"Nothing. Thank you, the three of you, for everything you've done today." Mr. Y checked his watch. "There is nothing more I will need of you tonight, as I am going out. Good evening. Ah, wait! One last thing. How was the Vicomte?"

"You mean, Raoul, sir? Well, to be perfectly honest, he was grumpy the whole ride."

"Ah." Mr. Y grinned. "What a shame."

)

(

)

"Say, Ariel!" said Alf sarcastically, imitating Mr. Y on the way down the steps. "Did you manage to get a tape measure around her waist, too?"

My voice trumpet was hanging uselessly over my shoulder, but I still snorted with laughter.

"Mr. Y _was _acting unusual, wasn't he?" Ariel neutrally chipped in.

Alf made a dark sound in his throat. "Indeed. And if he's looking to remain on good terms with me, this'll be the last time he does so in front of you. Of all the outrageous performances...having Ariel wax poetic over a married woman's beauty for him right before he goes to _see_ her!"

No subtlety could ever be lost on Alf, who had deftly pieced together the purpose for Mr. Y's evening outing. He'd been around too long. Likewise, no breach of propriety could ever elude his notice, either, although tonight it was clear that the day's stress and fatigue was turning his traditional irritation into outright anger. He looked tired.

"And if he ever looks at Ariel like that again, I'll crown him King of the Fools!" he concluded, growling, with a clenching of his fist.

Ariel squeaked. "Oh, Daddy!" her voice echoed feebly in the staircase. "You wouldn't _really_ hit Mr. Y, would you?"

My tattooed friend was unrelenting, but his growl took on a warm, fatherly tenderness. "I'd take any man who violated your chastity to the cleaners, Baby Fleck. Yes, and iron him for free."

"Oh." Ariel's tiny chuckle sounded disturbed. "Lucky thing."

)

(

)

Eight o' clock. The Ayrie garage, in the glass carriage, at eight o' clock. Between my nerve-easing drinks, I obsessed over what surprise she could possibly have waiting for me in there. I drained my glass and sent some more wine swirling into it. I certainly had my fantasies.

I hoped it would at least be worth having to call Maria off. She had telephoned not too long earlier, gushing about all the wonderful things we would do in honor of my birthday. The silence on the line when I meekly mentioned that Ariel and I had plans was the most aggressive I've ever heard.

"Ah-ree-ella?" she eventually growled again. "Always this Ah-ree-ella. What you do tonight, eh? Play chess?"

"I don't know. She says it's a surprise."

There was a distinct snicker. "Ah. Hopscotch, then. Not to be missed, no?"

In all fairness," I felt compelled to state rationally, "She asked me before you."

"Tell her you must be elsewhere."

"I'm not going to lie to her."

Silence. I could picture her rolling her eyes.

"You still there, Maria?"

"Yes, Greg, I'm here," she snapped. "I won't argue anymore. If you want to spend your birthday playing _pinna-de-tail _on the donkey, I don't care. _Buona notte." _

And now, here I was in the Roman Colosseum Restaurant, dressed as nicely as I was able, drinking wine at the counter and watching the clock tick excruciatingly slow. It was seven thirty.

One of the cooks, who was acting as bartender, gazed at me. I guess he was so used to seeing me in a fury that my nervousness was jarring. "Se stai bene, capo?" he asked.

"Si," I sighed heavily, pushing my empty glass towards him. "Rosso, per favore."

He refilled my glass. I drank it down. I twiddled my thumbs. I waited a bit. I translated the Italian writing on the liquor bottles into English. I looked at the clock.

It was seven thirty-one.

I slammed my face onto the counter. The marble was cool beneath my cheek.

"Per favore, capo!" cried the cook-bartender again, slapping my back. "Hai un aspetto malatto! Posso aiutarla?"

My eyes were misty as I looked at him. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all, even if he couldn't cook. I pushed my empty glass towards him again. "Rosso, per favore," I croaked.

He took it away reluctantly as I began wildly theorizing. Eight o' clock in a dark secluded garage. Apparently, this was a secret surprise. It couldn't be food. That would be ridiculous. In light of her recent falling-out-of-love with Mr. Y, a desperate idea poked to the forefront of my mind. A romantic surprise? In the dark?

I received a full wine glass again. I looked into its sparkly crimson depths and saw my reflection. When I tapped it, the image shook. I looked at the clock.

It was still seven thirty-one. I didn't know how much more of this I could take.

)

(

)

At last! Eight o' clock. If you're wondering how I survived the wait, I spent the remaining half hour helping the cooks scrub pots. That's how desperate I was.

Anyhow, when I entered the Ayrie garage, only a few lights were on, and Ariel was seated inside the glass carriage. She looked up as I shut the door behind me.

"Right on time," she said pleasantly, though her countenance was anxious, patting the seat beside her. "Sit down."

I did.

"I'm reeeady for my surprise," I crooned. I felt as though I had been forced to wait for seventy years.

Her throat bobbed, and when she took my hands she couldn't seem to be able to decide whether to look into my eyes or not.

"You already know that I don't love Mr. Y anymore."

So love had to do with it! I nodded, heart racing.

"Well, there's someone else now." She smiled a bit, still looking away. "He's just wonderful. He looks out for me, and has always been there when I needed him, even when I'm a pain in the neck. I couldn't ask for anyone better. Now, I suspect he feels the same about me, and I'm not entirely certain how he'll feel when I tell him I love him..."

Someone else? I looked at Ariel where she sat, dressed up and glowing, and was taken sharply aback. Now, what sort of surprise was this, that she would get all prettied and take me in here, and then tell me there was another man? Unless that wasn't what she meant.

"Ariel," I asked seriously. "Who is this man?"

At this, her little chin wobbled, and when she looked up at me her eyes were filled with tears. "It's you."

For a good minute I was completely speechless. I coudn't believe it. But slowly and surely, I began piecing it together, returning to reality, and as I looked into Ariel's earnest, blushing face, it all became real, gloriously real. She loved me. The joy rushed from my heart, all over my body like a tidal wave of warmth, and all the world was a song. The battle within myself was over. Ariel loved me! Of all the birthday surprises in all the world, this couldn't be better.

I could confess it at last, and off my chest it came like a weight, setting me free. "And I have always loved you too, Signorina, but I felt I could never tell you...I didn't think we could ever..."

One of those foolish tears of joy snuck down my cheek as I took her into my arms, and speech became utterly ridiculous. Our first kiss had been me surprising her in the tunnel, the second had been her surprising me in the city, and now our third was no surprise whatsoever, save for the surprise of two wandering souls finding each other at long last. It was, up to that point, the most wonderful moment of my life, holding her in my arms and kissing her, and feeling her kiss me back with the same love that I felt for her.

The glass around us sparkled in her eyes. "Oh, Gregory dear. Happy birthday."

Whether it was wine or courage, I can't say, but in that moment I felt as though the world were in my hands, that anything could happen, that the rules of the world hardly mattered, and without even asking for Alf's permission, I took (well, violently grabbed) Ariel's little white hand, the one with the emerald ring.

"You have such a beautiful hand, Signorina. Would you...could I...put an engagement ring on it?" I was so excited that I tripped over my words, but eventually I asked, "I mean, will you marry me?"

And the joy on her face was abruptly frozen with anxiety. "Oh," she gasped, pulling her hand away from me and bringing it to her lips. "Oh my, I..."

"Don't get frightened and don't say no right away," I told her. "You don't need to decide right this minute. It's a big decision, to get married to someone. If you want, the two of us can go nice and slow, and when you're ready we can become more serious..."

"Oh no, no, I'm not frightened, dear. It's just all so much, being engaged like this." She gave a hysterical little giggle. "To be someone's fiancee!"

"Then you accept!"

Her perfumed head burrowed into my jacket. "I do, darling. I do!"

There was no ring to give just then, but the promise was enough. Ariel and I were engaged! The glass carriage and the dim workshop around us became hallowed ground, and despite the grime and tools and simplicity I thought it was the most wonderful place on earth, because my love was there. For an indefinite period of time we reclined in each other's arms, luxuriously kissing the other's lips and cheeks, brushing eyelashes, stroking foreheads, letting the grim old world with its trials and tribulations pass us by.

She was mine. I held her dear little body, so small compared to mine, and amazed myself with the truth that she was mine at long last, and I would do anything for her.

"Ariel dear," I said, an indescribable feeling stirring in my heart. "I feel that...we must...do something!"

The night was young. Outside the stars were gleaming, Coney Island was bustling with life and lights, rides and dances, music and thrills. The world was ours, at least this little bit of it. I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket. I had a crumpled dollar bill and fifty cents in change. I couldn't wait to blow every penny of it on Ariel. And what better place to do so than in...

"Do something?" that divine creature asked wonderingly.

"Yes." I kissed her cheek and leaned on the opposite seat, bringing my face close to Oscar's glittering jaw. "Oscar!" I ordered. "Take us to Luna Park!"

)

(

)

It's gone now, preserved only in photos and crackling old film reels, but there was never a more wonderful place (other than Phantasma) than Luna Park at night. Away we rolled, out of Phantasma's eerily grinning gates, and with hearts aglow we beheld the Park's majesty. It was a triumph of modern electricity. Imagine the funny onion-like towers of Moscow, combined with all manner of European castles, turrets, arches, Persian motifs, and then adorn them in swirls and piping of screaming, vibrant hues, and you will begin to have an idea of Luna Park.

It was through this otherwordly fantasy land that me and my love went driving, happy as clowns. Were we allowed to take out the glass carriage without permission? Absolutely not. Into Luna Park? By no means. In plainclothes, out-of-character, cackling and kissing like newlyweds? Get out of town. But we didn't care. Any rationality I had left was promptly intoxicated into oblivion at the first restaurant we trooped into.

"Get my fiancee a glass of Coca-Cola, my fine fellow!" I roared proudly, slapping the waiter on the shoulder. "And fetch me some wine!"

After our brief drink, my delightful Ariel pointed through the window at a coconut shy. "Oh! Let me try my hand at it, darling, please?"

Into her hand went a crisp dollar bill, even though it only cost three cents, and Princess Ariel promptly sent a coconut soaring through a whole pyramid of bottles. Her reward? A big stuffed heart, which she bestowed upon me, "her lovely fiance". I gave it right back, because "I loved her more". She shoved it right back, because "she loved me more indeed". We fought over it until we saw a dance hall.

They were banging out ragtime inside, 'The Entertainer' to be exact, and after one last swig of my beer (purchased after the coconut shy) I taught lovely Ariel how to do the ragtime one-step. Or perhaps she taught me. I remember giggling and leaning on her a lot.

"We're getting married," I told the bass player, who looked a bit concerned. "Isn't that right, Arie..." A burp shook in my throat.

After the dance, we decided to just ride around. I was glad for the rest. We lay against each other and watched the stars above us as Oscar worked his driving magic. It was all so wonderful. Never could I recall being this happy.

"No more drinking, Gregory dear," whispered Ariel. "You're starting to smell like a bar."

I kissed her and slid off the seat. What a night. What a birthday.

)

(

)

Unlike it had been earlier, the Ayrie garage was completely black when we came rolling back into it, and when the door shut us in, we were enclosed in a world of complete darkness, me and my new fiancee. It was as though we were the only two beings in the whole universe.

"It's been a wonderful night, darling," murmured Ariel. I felt her warm hand clasp mine. "You knew just where to tell Oscar to take us."

The blood in my veins, already warm with wine, became even warmer as I nuzzled close to her ear. "I was going to tell him to take us to heaven," I said, "But that's where I am when I'm with you. Luna Park was the next best choice."

"And this," she added gently, "Is the next best after that."

One simply must kiss after an exchange like that, and we did. But as I made out the softness of Ariel's lips, I sensed a shuffle; she was moving over on the seat. A multi-layered sort of softness filled my lap, and I perceived by the arms that wrapped around me that she was now sitting on my lap. Her breath whispered across my cheek, and her lips were against mine once more.

She chuckled a bit. "There's wine on your breath."

I might have replied, but she reoccupied my lips too swiftly, and my body was presently overcome with a feeling akin to electricity, deeper, almost painful electricity. It was as though she were the power, and I was the Luna Park of sorts, being brought to life by her, and she in her turn was enjoying the spectacle. A give-and-take. A man and a woman. That's all we were. Unable to see in the darkness, I could sense things about Ariel that were somehow obscured in the light of day. I could sense the flesh of her arms beneath the filmy cotton of her blouse, the thighs beneath all the lace, the heart beating between her breasts. She intoxicated me.

Now, if the lights had snapped on, and the two of us could see each other, and ourselves, and what we were doing, that's where our intimacy would have stopped, but the complete darkness of the carriage and the garage enclosed us in a strange world where nothing mattered, and when Ariel sat up and hungrily pressed her body into mine, the temptation was suddenly overwhelming. All that separated our bodies were a few paper-thin layers of fabric.

Not a word was spoken. All it took was a tossing up of skirts, a shifting of fabric, some unbuttoning and pulling, and all at once Ariel Fleck and Gregory De Rossi were together, as only lovers can be. The particulars of how we went about enjoying each other and the desperate things we whispered in the dark are, I'm afraid, not for anyone to know but myself and Ariel, but this I can say: I'd had sex many times in my life, but that night with Ariel was the first time I'd ever made love. It made all the difference.

Now, there is always (and I know this because I've experienced it many times) an inevitable awkward moment after satisfying sexual congress, after all the post-rapture kisses and tingles have subsided, in which you know it's quite through and it's time to go your separate ways. There's usually a nod towards wherever the exit is, a last "gee you did swell" grin, and then off you go. In the darkness of the Ayrie garage, however, I couldn't see Ariel well enough to make out a facial expression.

I kissed her and said goodnight softly, and she did the same to me, and off we went, separately. I hit the pillow and fell asleep almost immediately, giving me no time to reflect on the realities of what I had done to Alfred "Take Him to the Cleaners" Fleck's only, beloved, virgin daughter.

That would be tomorrow.

_**(Gangle stops here for now.)**_

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. See what I said about the carriage? Tee-hee. Keep it classy, Fleck and Gangle!

2. There's a fic on this site called "Into Light". For Pete's sake, go read it.


	21. Things Fall Apart

Note: You'll forgive the long update gap, won't you? (ducks tomatoes) This chapter is LONG and loaded with DRAMA. (I would've named it "Shit Goes Down", but…) It's a juicy piece of literary steak, worth the extra wait, I think. Read on!

Chapter Twenty-One

Things Fall Apart

_**(Miss Fleck picks up the story.)**_

I should've known by then that the dark Ayrie garage was a bad idea. All the major improprieties I'd ever committed thus far had all occurred when myself, darkness, emotional vulnerability, and secluded locations all came together: Genny in the bathing machine, Mr. Y in the Ayrie, and now Gregory in the glass carriage, in what was arguably the most foolish thing I'd ever done in my life.

Yet, if I could've gone back in time, would I have done anything different? At the time it didn't feel wrong. I was a girl who'd just had the most romantic evening of her life with a man whom she loved, and who was loved back just as intensely. The twilight fantasies of Luna Park had set the stage; Gregory and I were like star-struck lovers caught in the most delicious roles ever written, the world set aside as our stage, the moment in the spotlight ours. It was incredible. Even so, I never expected for things to go as far as they did. Even while dreaming the dream, I was grounded enough in reality to know that some things must be saved for after the wedding. I'd made some mistakes, but I was still Ariel Fleck, a pure virgin.

Then came the cloak of darkness.

Now, I'm sure Gregory has told you that I sat in his lap, which caused everything to spiral out of control. Now, first of all, the man was so drunk that I find it highly doubtful that he can remember anything, especially fifteen years later. Second of all, that's not what happened. We kissed intensely, and he actually grabbed me and sat me in his lap himself. Then it spiraled out of control. So there.

(I'm not blaming him, mind you. After all, those who lose their virginity in glass carriages shouldn't throw rocks. )

It was an amazing experience. I screamed the whole time. I started crying when my dashing Signor broke my maidenly barrier (necessitating a brief stop), sniveled through the ascent, and sobbed through the climax. Oscar slipped off his seat and slumped into the foot-well as a result of the rather invigorating rhythm the two of us got into, poor skeleton.

We parted ways not long after we were through. Our eyes never met. The dark night world around me prevented me from truly feeling the gravity of what I had just done. It was not until the dim light of Fleck Manor's parlor illuminated my hands that the shock began to sink in. Dimly, I knew I could not lie down next to Daddy, so I drooped onto the parlor couch, amazed, and fell into a strange but deep slumber.

)

(

)

I awoke to the sunlight striking me in the eyes, a golden, fiery ray that seemed a messenger of divine retribution, and when I scooted away from it, trembling, I became aware of a burning pain down right where you'd imagine. It felt raw, rubbed, and although I could feel it constantly, it felt the worst whenever I sat down. The previous night had not been a dream. This burning would not let me forget. Slumped over on our parlor couch, still wearing the dress I'd worn yesterday, I at looked at my hands, my feet, my reflection in a glass frame. I looked around the light-filled parlor. In the bedroom, I heard Daddy coughing and getting up, and for the first time in my life the thought of him filled me with horror.

What had I done? More importantly, how could I have done it?

"Baby Fleck!" His friendly face of tattoos poked around the doorframe. "You fell asleep on the couch?"

There I sat, a fallen woman, transfixed under her father's gaze. "Yes. I was reading last night..." A complete and utter lie-"and now, here I am."

"Must have been a boring book," Daddy chuckled. "Why, you're still in your clothes. No matter. Let's dress up and get to breakfast."

)

(

)

The face of Ariel Fleck looking back at me in the mirror made me nauseous, so I hastened to conceal it with the usual cosmetics. At last, that familiar and strange woman with her smoky eyes and scarlet lips appeared in the glass. I could hide behind her for a while. All around me, the ladies were having giddy little conversations about the end of the season and what things they would likely do, the picnics they'd have, the knitting circles they'd like to organize. I was confined to my self-inflicted misery. What would I do over the off-season? What indeed? I could scarcely imagine how I was going to get through this day, let alone the off-season...

"Ariel," greeted Genevieve, her traditional lollipop bobbing in her mouth. "Good morning, cutie. Say, later on, how about..."

"No." The word flew out of my mouth like a slap, almost without my knowing, but I knew in my heart that I had to pull myself together. Enough was enough. This secretive business was hurtful to both myself and Genny, and on top of it all, it was a lie. It had to stop.

Genny blinked. "No? I haven't even said..."

I rose from the vanity and gestured for her to follow me out of the dressing room, and we both went into a little nook near the back fence, near the side of one of the roller coasters, where it was unlikely we'd be seen or overheard.

"Ariel, what's wrong?" Genny asked, smoothing her hair as she tiptoed through the overgrown grass. "Why this seclusion?"

I concentrated miserably on a broken old Coke bottle, knowing I'd have to hurt her. "Genny, I've been very unfair to you. It can't go on anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

"This..." I cast about for a word. "This whole secret thing between the two of us has got to stop. It's wrong. It's not even real. I've got to tell the truth, Genny, and the truth is that I'm not in love with you. I never have been. I only loved the way we made each other feel. It's been just terrible and selfish of me to let this go on for as long as I have, and it's got to stop. I'm very sorry. Things have changed now."

Genny's poor face was like a vase being broke to pieces. "Ariel," she trembled, "I..."

"I still care about you," I told her, "But not in the way I've been acting. This whole thing was a mistake."

"You're worried about what your father would say..." she started to protest desperately, tears in her eyes, but I shook my head.

"He has nothing to do with this. It's a matter of being truthful. I can't go on living a lie."

"But..."

"Please. Let's just go our separate ways and forget it."

I tore my eyes away from her and hurried off, perhaps too abruptly, but I knew that she would only carry on, and I would not be able to stand it anymore if she did. Off I went through the tall grass, around the building, back to the dressing-room sidewalk.

I was early. Against the throbbing pain, I slowly lowered myself to the ground and sat down. The cool-scented September air blew, people passed me by, the world at large carried on. I was Miss Fleck, the bad girl, alone, trapped in my misery, and nobody knew it but me.

"Ariel."

Standing a few feet away, not yet costumed, was Gregory. Not twelve hours ago, this was the man whose arms had been wrapped around me, whose body had entwined so intimately with mine, in whose ear I had cried the most obscene things. Here he was, before me, in the daylight, a look of unspeakable mortification on his face.

"Gregory," I replied, at a loss for anything else.

It was incredible. In one night, all of a sudden, all at once, everything between us was changed irrevocably. We could never go back to how we were before. The things we'd cried to each other, the way we'd entwined so intimately, the knowledge we had of the other's body!

And yet, here we were in the daylight, dressed respectably in our clothes, standing before each other, outwardly as decent as could be, calling each other "Ariel" and "Gregory". It was utterly ridiculous.

"Ariel," Gregory almost whispered, pale as a sheet. "Ariel, last night, I…don't…are you okay?"

I didn't know. "Yes."

"I only remember some of it. I drank too much wine; that much is true. But, Ariel, I must know something very important. You don't remember if the whole thing was finished inside, right?"

"Finished inside?"

He blushed. "Inside your body."

Despite my new non-virgin status, I was still surprisingly obtuse. "Well, naturally, you had to be in my body, that's the only way to…"

"No, no, you are not understanding." He took a deep breath. "I must know if, at the time, I thought enough to…ah…"

He started doing squeamish little hand gestures, trying to explain what he meant that way, which only served to confuse me more.

"Gregory dear," I sighed. "We've _done it._ There's nothing we can't discuss. We've reached that point."

When I put it that way, he at last felt free to be open, and he asked me, in hushed tones, if it seemed like he spilled his seed (so to speak) inside or outside of my body.

"Because," he concluded anxiously, "If I did, you could be having a baby."

Oh! Me, Miss Fleck, having a baby. The concept was so incredible as to almost be ridiculous, but I knew my human biology; I had simply never dreamed of myself as the female variable. My mind's eye was suddenly accosted by images of myself with a big belly swelling under my dress, myself knitting little hats and blankets, myself waddling around in labor and giving birth. It was amazing, sobering, and it could be real.

And I was unmarried. And nobody but Gregory and I knew. And Daddy…!

I desperately wracked my brains for an answer to his question.

"I can't say I'm certain," I admitted, "But if you were so drunk that you can't remember if you did, surely you weren't in a frame of mind to do so at all."

He couldn't beat that logic, although he certainly looked as though he wished he could.

"That's an excellent point," he croaked. Then he struck upon another idea. "Wait. Er, tell me, when is the last time you, ah…"

More squeamish hand gestures, although it seemed he didn't know the term in English.

"It's, ah…when you bleed…"

"Menstruated? Well, I ought to begin again in about two weeks, I think."

"Ohhh…" His eyes widened, his head slumped over with a moan, and then he began thumping it with his fists.

"Is that bad?" I asked, hoping that this was the way Italians expressed relief.

"If you want to have a baby, no, but if you don't…" His miserable face reappeared. "That's when a lady is most fur-tie-ill, two weeks before she bleeds. Oh, Ariel, the chances are good that I've put a baby in you."

The earth felt as though it was spinning under my feet. I felt unreal. A baby inside of me. Trembling, I looked down at my belly and cupped it in my palms, imagining a tiny baby growing deep inside my womb.

"Please, Ariel, don't touch your belly like that," Gregory groaned in distress. "This is terrible. How could I do this to you?"

I was speechless. I couldn't believe it.

"I'm so sorry." He pulled me into his arms. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault, Ariel, all of it."

"What are we going to do?" I asked feebly, and the words felt completely alien on my tongue as I went on, "If I'm…having a baby?"

"Only two choices. Don't tell, take our chances, and wait to see if there's really a baby, or…" His voice dropped. "Tell your Daddy, and see what he does."

I heard Daddy's voice in my mind._ "I'd take any man who violated your chastity to the cleaners, Baby Fleck," _he said with conviction, and then he added, whimsically,_ "Yes, and iron him for free."_

Gulping, I saw a vision of Gregory hanging limply on a coat hanger, being ironed, or, more realistically, having his person beaten into oblivion. Daddy liked him, but a transgression of this magnitude would be more than enough to merit a spot on his "unreasonable" list, if not the "contemptible" one.

"I don't want you to get in trouble, dear," I said. "And if Daddy hears of this, he'll be absolutely furious with you."

I felt his chest tremble. "I know," he replied. "But, but if we wait until your belly is big, he will be even more angry."

"There's no guarantee that it will."

"But the chance that it will is very good."

Aggie-Ann went strolling by, finished with her makeup, and we bolted upright. "G'mornin' to y'all, Air-yull, an' you, De Rossi," they drawled. "Las' day o' the season tomorrer!"

"Last day," I echoed.

"Sure is!" Out of the dressing room strolled little Mr. Geddes. "You two and Alf finally get to put your hot ballooning skills to the test, lucky Trio!" His gnome-like face was wrinkled with a carefree grin. "Say, Ariel, where's your pa at?"

"Breakfast, likely."

"Ah. Alright, dear, I'll see you there."

Another wave of newly dressed freaks passed us by, and then my lover and I were alone again. We were silent. It was time to get on with our day, but we were trapped in our crisis, almost like an alternate world.

"We have to decide what we are going to do as soon as possible," I resolved, although I hadn't faintest idea how. "By tonight, if we can."

Gregory didn't respond for a while, but then his head slowly began to nod. "Tonight."

More silence.

"Gregory?"

"Yes?"

Putting what I felt into words was difficult. "Even if something…not good comes out of this, I want you to know that I love you." I took his hands, a blushing shyness warming my cheeks. "And, um, last night…I really liked being with you."

"Oh, Signori…" He seemed to realize halfway through that he could never call me 'little girl' ever again, and moisture glimmered in his eyes as he hugged me. "Ariel."

_)_

_(_

_)_

When we went up to the Ayrie, Mr. Y was tinkering with his automatons, much calmer than he had been yesterday.

"Last night," he said, "I promised Christine Daae's son that I would show him about Phantasma. You needn't search for him, but if you happen to encounter the child as you go about today, please bring him up here to me. His mother is already informed."

)

(

)

The three of us were actually passing the barn where Meg Giry liked to rehearse when we ran into my little poetry buddy himself. He was lingering just beyond the door, sitting cross-legged on the ground, poking the dirt with a stick, an expression of unspeakable boredom on his face. That is, until he noticed us.

"Bonjour!" he sighed gratefully, as though we were coming to rescue him from Tedious Island, and he rushed straight to me. "Hello again, Miss Raven. Do you know where Mr. Y is? I'm supposed to see him. He wants to show me around!"

"We know," I replied, and I gently pried his fingers off my skirt of feathers. "Mr. Y sent us to find you."

He beamed. "Wonderful! Take me to him, please!"

But Daddy had been around too long to immediately consent. "Where are your parents, young man?"

That seemed to trip him up, but he quickly replied, with every appearance of honesty, "Elsewhere. They're letting me explore by myself."

Neither Christine nor her husband could be seen in any direction we looked, so it seemed good to take him along; at any rate, he was safer with Mr. Y than wandering about in Phantasma unattended. Off we went together, away from the barn and onto the main stretch.

Gustave took my hand, the one with the emerald ring, and upon feeling the coldness of the stone he examined it. "You have a lovely ring, Miss Raven," he told me admiringly. "Are you going to get married?"

Daddy looked like he wanted to make a comment, but didn't. Gregory's mouth tightened. Something between a giggle and a sob choked me. _No, kid, I'm a tramp. _

"It's... not a wedding ring," I replied; what little virtue I still had would not allow me to untruthfully confirm or deny an impending wedding. "My mother gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday."

"Does she work here too?"

"She's not alive anymore, son," Daddy answered gently for me.

Gustave's childish face became stricken; it was clear that the death of a child's mother was a subject he rarely thought about. "That's sad," he murmured. "But at least you have that nice ring she gave you."

"Yes." I looked at that familiar emerald, and then allowed the kid to take my hand again. "Every time I look at it, I remember what a wonderful mother I had. I would be so sad if anything happened to it."

"She must have been wonderful, to buy it for you."

My eyes burned. Every force on earth was trying to destroy me today; I just knew it.

Daddy gave my shoulder a quick pat and quickly changed the subject. "She certainly was. So, young man, you're from France, are you?"

"Paris!" Gustave clarified proudly.

"Paris." The tattoos on Daddy's cheeks stretched with the chipper smile he reserved for children. "Is it very different from the United States?"

"Yes!"

He fearlessly grabbed hold of Daddy's big hand and swung it as he told him about the _Boutiques_ and the _Pâtisseries_, the _Musées_ and the _Conservatoires,_ the grand _Tour Eiffel_ and the morning mist hanging over the _Seine._ He also told us about the _Opera Populaire_, and how his mother first rose to fame there, singing as an understudy in the 1896 production of Hannibal. Little did he know that I had researched that long in advance.

The Ayrie soon loomed ahead. It had become old hat for us, but Gustave cried aloud in amazement, just as thrilled with it as we had been on the very first opening day. He craned his neck all the way back to see the very top.

"Is that where Mr. Y lives?" he breathed.

"Ah, that is where he works," Gregory replied a bit stupidly, as though he had felt compelled to finally break his all-day silence, and when we reached the base he opened the door.

"There are a lot of stairs, as you can see," I told him. "So step lively, child!"

Daddy told his hand. "Indeed. Mr. Y is waiting."

)

(

)

The Ayrie door was unlocked, so we simply let ourselves in. To say Gustave was amazed doesn't do the emotion justice; the kid just stood still for a minute, slack-jawed, taking in all the automatons, the golden angel, the stained glass, letting it all sink into his memory. I remembered my first time in the Ayrie. It felt as though it had been years. Now, a very different Miss Fleck was standing on the threshold, feeling something like nostalgia for the innocent wonder of the past.

"Mr. Y!" cried Gustave.

But Mr. Y, strangely enough, didn't seem to hear. He was hunched over his mechanical organ, tools in hand, back turned to us. I went over and tapped him.

"Ah!" he said, smiling at Gustave. "Bienvenue, jeune vicomte. Regardez autour de vous. Je vais en finir avec cela dans un instant."

He must have said something along the lines of _look around, _because Gustave immediately went tripping around to all the automatons.

"Thank you," Mr. Y said to us, but before he returned to his work, he went to the piano. "But before you go, Mr. Fleck, there are a couple letters here for you."

Daddy's forehead crinkled. "Letters?"

"Yes. I found them in my letter-box this morning. It seems the mailers didn't know where to send them to reach you, so they gave them to me. The return addresses are all from Luna Park."

Holy Mackerel. Luna Park. Gregory and me looked at each other in utter horror as Daddy accepted the letters into his hand.

"Thank you, sir," he grumbled, examining the envelopes. "Do you need anything else?"

He didn't, and so we were dismissed, and as we descended, curiosity overcame Daddy. When he started ripping open the first envelope, my inner voice started shrieking, _This is it, Ariel, you slob! It's over! _Gregory looked as though he were going to faint down the stairs.

The first card was tasteful, with a pretty black-and-white border of roses. Daddy read aloud.

"_Dear Mr. Fleck, I hope this letter finds you in good health and good humor. This is just a note of congratulations regarding…"_ He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing in disbelief, and his voice continued slowly. _"Regarding the impending marriage of your daughter. Sincerely, Malachi Jones, bassist at the Luna Park Dance Hall." _

I blushed from the tips of my toes to the feather on my hat as Daddy stared at me.

"Why on earth would this Mr. Jones think such a thing?" he asked, bewildered, although it was less of a demand and more of a rhetorical question. "Why, it's complete nonsense."

He sat down on the step and reached for another envelope. Oh, if only I could have grabbed them and dashed them into a stream!

The second card was also very tasteful, with a spray of violets tied with a bow.

"_Dear Mr. Alfred Fleck, on behalf of myself and the other gentlemen here at the Cupid's Bow Restaurant in Luna Park, I would like to congratulate you…"_ Daddy's voice rose in astonishment…_"On the engagement of your daughter!" _

Without even stopping to question it, Daddy quickly ripped open the third envelope, a half-crazy gleam in his eyes.

The third card was the most tasteful of all, I must say: a little dove sitting upon a branch, chirping out the cursive words: _From All Of Us. _

"_My dear Mr. Fleck, me, the guys, and the ladies here at the Luna Park Coconut Shy would like to extend a hearty congratulations to you…"_ Daddy almost yelled the rest…_"As your daughter becomes a wife!" _

He looked rapidly around at the cards, me, Gregory, then back at the cards again, as though he were going insane. "Why…this…is unbelievable!" he cried. "Three people, and all of them seem to think you're going to be married, Ariel! Who would have told them such a thing?"

"It is unbelievable," croaked Gregory.

"This has got to be a mistake. They must be confusing me with someone else. And still…how could all these people make the same mistake? At any rate, I must write them at once, and tell them they're mistaken, before they start spreading this news!"

Gregory took my hand as we continued going down, desperately mouthing, _He's going to find out!_

_What are we going to do? _I silently screamed back.

_I wish I knew,_ he communicated with a frightened shrug.

"If life," sighed Daddy aloud, "Isn't just one thing after another!"

)

(

)

He was right. No sooner did we attempt to resume our duties than we encountered Christine Daae herself, who, despite her obvious unhappiness, looked like a princess in an ensemble of white. She was looking all about her, wildly, as though she had lost something, and when her eyes fell upon us (we were hard to forget), she signaled her distress with a wave.

"Yes?" inquired Daddy politely.

"My son has gone off by himself," she told us, blushing, "And I believe he has gone looking for Mr. Y. He promised that he would show him around this place, and I told him to wait until he was called for…"

A grin, such as only a parent can make, spread across Daddy's face. "Ah, but he told us that you knew." he chuckled. "We found him and took him right to Mr. Y, ma'am, up in the Ayrie. Come, we'll take you right to him."

And so the Trio momentarily became a Quartet with the addition of Christine Daae, a white swan among our snakes, feathers, and trench coats. Once more, we ascended in circles, and at last we reached the Ayrie door.

"Now," said Daddy, "We'll…"

But suddenly a scream sounded inside the Ayrie, a child's scream, and before we could even react, the door was flung open, and Gustave came bolting out.

"Gustave!" Christine screamed as he burrowed, weeping, into her dress. "Ce n'est pas grave! C'est moi!"

The kid that had been so excited minutes ago was completely horrified. "Il est si terrible!" he cried. "Terrible!"

Within, Mr. Y was hunched near his piano, his wig and mask on the floor. His hand was clamped over his deformity.

"Terrible," Gustave wept on.

Christine went pale as she looked from Gustave to Mr. Y, and she made a sharp move forward, looking desperately at us. "S'il vous plaît, emmenez-le…" She shook her head, remembering that we didn't speak French. "Ah, please, take him downstairs."

Off she hurried into the Ayrie, leaving Gustave with us, and when the door slammed shut we could hear her groaning within: "Erik! Pardonnez-lui. Il voulait faire aucun mal!"

Erik. That was Mr. Y's name? He told me he never had a name.

But we, the Trio, had little time to be amazed at this, for we were now in charge of a deeply shaken Gustave.

"We were playing music together," sniffed the child on the way down. "Mr. Y and me like the same kind of music. We like a lot of the same things. And all of a sudden, after we looked at a lot of things, he wanted to show me his face, and he suddenly pulled off his mask." He shuddered. "Mr. Y looks like the ugliest monster I ever saw."

As bizarre as it was for Mr. Y to de-mask in front of anyone, especially the child of a woman he loved, I felt sad for him. I wonder how I'd feel if people ran screaming away from me.

"He's really quite…kind," I defended him, though the eerie image of the Phantom of the Opera prevented me from being too lavish with the praise. "Perhaps you'll like him better next time."

He did not look as though there would ever be a next time.

"I'd sooner play with you, Miss Raven." He mumbled, huddling close to my feathers. "Do you want to say the poem again?"

My heart melted. Now, how do you refuse an offer like that?

"Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary…"

)

(

)

My unexpected role of babysitter prevented me from giving my "potential pregnancy" crisis any deep thought, and it wasn't until Gustave was sent home with his parents that it occurred to me again. The dinner bell rang, and I still had not come to a decision. Perhaps Gregory had.

I didn't even care that we were having fried cube steak, I was so nervous, and I hastened to my seat with Gregory while Daddy was still shoveling food on his plate.

"So what have we decided to do?" I whispered desperately to him.

But instead of an answer, I got a pained expression. "That's what I was going to ask you," he whispered back, just as unhappy. "All these cards your Dad is getting, it won't be long before he…"

Suddenly Damien's voice, strident and angry, rang out nearby. "Fleck!"

We looked up to see him, scarred mouth tight, eyes cold as flint, approaching Daddy, who was on his way to sit down with his dinner plate.

He frowned. "I'll thank you to ask my attention politely," he replied, and continued on his way, sitting down opposite me. "Or not at all."

"Listen here," the other went on. "Genny's completely beside herself, almost hysterical with nerves, she won't say a thing to me but 'Ariel'."

My heart plummeted. _Oh no._

"Ariel?" Daddy sprinkled salt on his cube steak, unconcerned. "What in the world would she want with Ariel?"

"That's what I'm here to find out, and I ain't leaving without an answer."

Three pairs of eyes fell on me: Damien's angry eyes, Gregory's confused eyes, and Daddy's disgruntled eyes, which swiftly returned to Damien.

"I'm sure she hasn't done anything," he growled. "Your sister is ever one for notions. Go eat; you're embarrassing Ariel."

Daddy's lack of concern brought a renewed vigor to Damien's accusations. "I say she has! I don't know what sort of a grudge you're holding against Genny, but I'm…"

"Wait a _minute!"_ Daddy cried; all at once an idea flashed in his eyes, and he sat up indignantly. "Why...it was _you_, then!"

Damien stopped short, flabbergasted. "Me?" he spat. "What are you talking about?"

"These cards I've been getting all day!"

For in his eternal prejudice against the Pennysworths and his faith in my goodness, Daddy had drawn the seemingly reasonable connection that Damien, in some act of vengeance against a perceived wrongdoing on my part, had decided to vindictively embarrass us by telling folks in Luna Park that I was getting married, thus prompting an avalanche of congratulatory cards. I knew, of course, that he was wrong.

As I expected, Damien was completely confused. "Cards?"

"Yes! The ones from all those people in Luna Park, congratulating me on Ariel getting married...which of course is a complete lie, and you know it!"

Beside me, Gregory went pale and moaned. By now, most of the people in the dining tent were staring at us.

"I don't know what the hell you're blathering about," growled Damien.

But Daddy went back to his coffee, convinced that his theory was true and that he had the moral high ground. "You, sir," he chuckled darkly, "Are the most spiteful human being I've ever seen, and you are also a liar. Go sit down..." (Here he waved his hand dismissively) "And I may decide not to tell Mr. Y about how you see fit to make a mockery of his better employees."

There was a long, seething silence, and then Damien's voice dropped to a deadly hiss. "Better employees, huh?" he said, clenching his fists. "So that's what this is. You think you and your daughter are better than me and Genny."

Daddy kept on sipping, ignoring him.

"You think just because Mr. Y gives you and Ariel and De Rossi special jobs and lets you jerk off in his Ayrie twice a day, that you've got...!"

"Watch your disgusting mouth around my daughter!" shouted Daddy, slamming down his coffee.

"...Some kind of special right to push the rest of us around!" Damien shouted right over him. "Well, mighty Mr. Squelch, I've got some news for you! If it weren't for Mr. Y cleaning you up, both you and her would be sitting in cages, not amounting to _shit!" _

Daddy's fists clenched.

"Please!" cried Mrs. Beardsley in distress.

"Y'all best stop this," Aggie said angrily as Ann nodded. "Ah ain't gon' listen t' this no more!"

Damien pointed at me and demanded, "You tell me what you've done to her."

The prospect of confessing what I'd done made me nauseous, and all at once a terrible dizziness made his angry face blend and smear with the colors of the room. It was too much. All at once, the terror and secrets of the past came stabbing at me in all directions, threatening to destroy me all at once. I felt like I was going to scream. Gregory wrapped his arm around my back.

"That's enough, Pennysworth," he said sternly. "I don't know what's going on, but I won't stand to have Ariel scared like this. We'll explain this calmly, or not at all!"

Daddy waved his hand. "This whole discussion is irrelevant. There is nothing to explain. Genevieve likely has some strange notion, in addition to the many strange notions she already seems to have."

"You...you!"

"Now get away from Ariel."

"Who are you? Jesus Christ?" Damien snarled, and he went on, coming closer, angrier than ever. "Well, go on, you! Tell me!"

"Back off," warned Gregory.

"I will warn you one last time," growled Daddy, slow and dangerous. "Get away from Ariel. Now."

"The heck's the matter with you?" Damien half-yelled, half-jeered at me. "You can speak for yourself, can't you? You're not like your dazed, idiot mother..."

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

The table rocked and the dishes crashed as Daddy leapt to his feet, bellowing that shocking word like a beast. In one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed Damien with one arm and hoisted him a whole four feet off the ground, as though he were a stuffed animal, crushing his throat in his fist. The whole dining tent went into pandemonium. The ladies shrieked and scrambled out of their seats. The men gathered about, yelling for him to call it off, but none dared approach Daddy, not even for Damien's sake.

Gregory pulled me to my feet, yelling, "Alf! No!"

But he did not stop. There, dangling like a trout on a hook, was Damien, choking for air, and Daddy was staring at him wildly, silently, his eyes wide, his face red and apoplectic with rage, the corners of his mouth curling, his muscles shaking. I never knew he could look so terrible.

His voice rattled, as though he had to force out the words._" Call...her...an idiot, will you?" _

Even if Damien wanted to defend himself, he couldn't; all he could do was choke and struggle, terror in his eyes, his scarred lips growing pale, and then Daddy's grip around his neck grew ever tighter. I could practically hear it cracking.

"Put him down, man!" yelled Mr. Geddes. "Put him down! You're going to kill him!"

"Alfred, dear, no! No! Stop!"

"Y'all gon' kill him!"

This was all my fault! All of it! Daddy would surely hurt Damien, and it was all because of me! I couldn't stand it anymore. "Please, Daddy!" I screamed. "Stop, STOP!"

For a moment it seemed that he would not listen, but then, all at once, he opened his fist, and Damien collapsed onto the floor in a heap. He lay there as though struck, unable to do anything but feel his throat and choke. Everyone in the tent just stood, staring.

_"Now,"_ said Daddy, still dangerous, pointing to the tent flap_. "Get out."_

You'd better believe he did. No sooner did he quit the room than the whole place erupted into disturbed murmurs and exclamations. A few people hurried after Damien. Daddy looked at the fist he had just choked Damien with, as though he couldn't quite believe what he had done. He closed his eyes and trembled. Someone hastened to get him a drink.

"For mercy's sake!" cried Mrs. Beardsley, wiping her eyes.

Gregory enfolded me in his arms. "Ariel...what...in the world was that about?"

For not even Gregory knew about Genny and me. He would surely find out soon enough. Everyone would. When Damien got back to Genny, she would be angry, and she would certainly tell everyone in revenge. Then they would all be shocked, disgusted, revolted. Perhaps Damien would even tell Mr. Y. Daddy would be disgraced, having a daughter who was so indecent. Poor, poor Daddy, who was such a hardworking, good man. Perhaps I would be sent away to an institution for bad girls. It was only a matter of time now...

A sick chill churned my stomach. "Greg'ry," I managed to croak. "I'm going to be sick."

We hustled out of the tent and gained the nearest trashcan just in time. Up and out came everything I'd just eaten for dinner, and after I choked out the last of it I began to cry. It was like puncturing a dam; once I started, I couldn't stop, and I remained slumped over on the rim, sobbing, while Gregory wiped my mouth, tears in his eyes.

"Ariel!" I became aware of Daddy's growly voice, filled with remorse, and then I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Ariel, dear, don't cry. I'm sorry."

I had to confess. I had to tell him everything, absolutely everything I had done, from Genny to Mr. Y to Gregory; I just had to. It was destroying me. I snuggled into Daddy's shirt.

"Daddy..." I began, bracing myself for the dreadful consequences, "I have...been...very bad."

"Bad? You mean..." He looked at me in disturbed surprise. "You mean you actually have done something to Genevieve?"

I nodded against his chest, unable to look at him. "And other very bad things."

)

(

)

We hurried back to Fleck Manor, Daddy and me. Gregory came too, but he had to stay outside, and just before the door closed on him he gave me the most terrified, pleading expression I'd ever seen him make. Fresh tears sprang up in my eyes as me and Daddy sat down on the parlor couch.

Daddy put his arm around me, but it was stiff and twitched nervously. "Ariel," he asked. "What are these bad things you've done?"

Oh, I could have died in that moment. Just fallen over and died. As it was, I started at the very beginning of it all and cried as I told him absolutely everything, and I mean everything, sparing no humiliating detail. I started with that night I'd fallen in love with Mr. Y, the way his music made my body feel, all the obscene ways I longed for him, the things I'd done to sublimate my newfound desires, the whole gruesome affair. I could not bring myself to look at his face, but I could feel his embarrassment in the silence.

During a pause, he wiped my eyes. "Mr. Y," he mumbled in amazement. "To think that...Ariel, do you still, ah_, feel_ this way about him?"

He had a way of putting things mildly. I shook my head no.

"There's no point," I said. "He loves that Christine lady. He doesn't care about me."

"Ariel." Daddy made a deep, sympathetic sound in his throat, and kissed my cheek.

"Not even when I kissed him."

_"What?"_

Yes, I told him all about that, too, making certain to assure him that Mr. Y was a perfect gentlemen in how he handled it. While I was at it, I told him all about the secret research I had done of the man, how I'd snooped into his business, took out newspaper advertisements, everything. I left Gregory out of it, though, but everything else came right out onto the table, including the ultimate discovery that Mr. Y was the Phantom of the Opera, and that he had once known Christine, back in France.

Poor Daddy's face was a tattooed mask of stern disbelief. "Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck," he said indignantly. "Do you mean to tell me that for the past three months, when I thought you were out looking at books, you were taking out ads in the _Times_ and all manner of secretive business, not to tell of how poorly you've behaved in the presence of what I understand is a potentially volatile man? Supposing he found out about your snooping!"

I hung my head.

"Wait." He remembered something. "Why, none of this has to do with Damien or Genevieve. You haven't yet told me that." He chuckled sadly. "The shock must have made me forget."

If my heart sunk any lower, it would get stuck in my intestines. I closed my eyes and wanted to die. How could I even begin to confess this?

"Daddy," I quavered, "You must promise me that you won't hate me forever."

There was a long moment of silence, laden with dread, in which neither myself nor Daddy spoke, but then he touched my arm, slowly, clearly afraid of what I was going to say.

"I could never hate you, Ariel," he growled gently. "What have you done?"

Out came the shameful tale of Ariel and Genevieve's bathing machine excursion, followed by all the subsequent excursions, and the effect on Daddy was similar to Chinese; he did not seem to even understand, he was so shocked. I explained that I had ended the affair with Genny, and that was why she was so grief-stricken. That was why Damien had been so angry.

And, because I knew it would have to be confessed, I unfolded the absolute worst for last: I told him that I had been with a man. (I did not name Gregory) What was more, I suspected that I was now in a delicate condition as a result.

That just shattered him. It was as though the tattoos on his face had suddenly become cracks on a smashed window. This was the worst possible news I could ever give him, the worst possible disgrace to bring upon him: a daughter who was an unwed mother by an anonymous man off the street, just like a whore. In my day, Daddy could have kicked my rear and thrown me out of his house, without inflicting any shock whatsoever on the public opinion.

As it was, he demanded details: when, how, where, was I forced, was the man drunk? Determined not to incriminate Gregory, I made a bunch of stuff up. Poor Daddy was then forced to ask dreadful questions about the act itself, trying to see if pregnancy could be potentially ruled out, but I just kept on smashing his hopes with every answer. At length, he just sat in devastated silence as I clutched his arm and sobbed my heart out, soaking his sleeve with bitter, frightened tears as I awaited my fate. After a very long time, he put his face in his free hand. He seemed unable to even conjure up anything to say.

Suddenly he sat up, eyes widening. "Pennysworth!" he cried. "Dear Lord, I've done wrong by him! And…" Here he leapt up, even more horrified. "And if this gets to Mr. Y…!"

My blood went cold. I had not even thought of that.

"I've got to see the man at once!" He hurried to the door. "Ariel, you stay right where you are!"

)

(

)

As it turned out, Damien had also gone searching for Daddy, for Genny had confessed the nature of our secret relations to him, and he too was afraid of the affair reaching the attentions of Mr. Y. They very nearly crashed into each other in the hallway.

"Fleck!" Damien cried hoarsely, his throat visibly bruised. "Genny's just told me the whole thing…you ain't going to Mr. Y, are you?"

Daddy steadied him. "Ariel has just told me as well, and I won't go to Mr. Y if you won't. Pennysworth, I owe you and your sister an apology, a tremendous apology. She may be wrong, but Ariel is just as much to blame. I have been a fool, and what's more, I have been completely _unreasonable_…"

"I shouldn't have called your old lady an idiot," admitted Damien.

"Indeed, but that is no excuse for my behavior, and if the situation is to be judged fairly, my prejudice against you was contemptible. I did not even consider that you had been wronged. Forgive me, please, and do tell me if there is anything I can do to make amends for this."

Damien bowed his head, softened by Daddy's forgiveness. "I forgive you. As for what to do…well, I guess you could, you know, clear my reputation with the others. You sort of accused me of some untrue things back there…"

"Yes, yes," Daddy agreed immediately. "I will be certain of it."

"And you'll forgive Genny, won't you? She's just…" He struggled for words. "She's not right in the head. She got banged around a lot as a child. Maybe I shouldn't, but if I tell you, you'll understand."

"Do tell me," consented Daddy, walking along with him

)

(

)

While Daddy was gone, Gregory came in. It was as though someone had put a straw in him and sucked out every last vestige of pride, reducing him to a meek, sad shell of his usual self. He did not sit on the couch. Instead, he knelt on the floor next to me, as if he felt he was unworthy to sit at my level.

"I told Daddy everything," I said, "But I didn't say it was you who I slept with. I said I didn't know who the man was."

"But-a the cards," he moaned into a cushion, and his voice became heavily accented with fear. "From Luna Park, all-a those people who saw us together! And who knows how many are still coming. No, I must tell-a the truth. I have done the wrong thing, and I must be the one to set it straight. And if he sends me away, that is his right."

I grabbed him, tears welling in my eyes anew. "No, no! No, dear, I couldn't stand that. No, there must be some other way!"

He shook his head hopelessly as if it were already decided. "I no deserve you anyway," he murmured.

"Stop that!" I cried. "Please, don't…"

"I took ah-van-tige of you." Gregory took my hands, and our sad eyes met in the evening gloom. "That ees the truth. You always so good, and now I hurt you."

"What about me?" I demanded. "I was every bit as wrong. I could have told you no. I could have walked right out of there. We're both crummy human beings, Gregory, you hear? Both of us!"

He still shook his head, but now a particularly strange sort of misery infected his eyes, almost as though he were seeing a monster. His voice was empty as he went on, "Not like me." He swallowed and calmed back into good English again. "Last night was your first time, yes?"

I nodded.

"Of course it was, I can tell. And as of yesterday, you are my one-hundred-and-sixth girl. My one-hundred-and-fifth is Maria."

My mind boggled. I was speechless. He was completely serious. I tried to imagine 106 women, all of them having had a history with my Gregory, but I couldn't.

"And I have lied to you as well," he continued hollowly, as though he were on his way to be killed. "About the Mafia. I was never in the Mafia. I wanted to join, but they would not let me. The Mafia does not allow you to sleep around, and they do not like you to drink so much alcohol. They said I was too immoral." He gave a miserable laugh. "A bunch of criminals said that I was too immoral to join them. I just ran their errands. An associate, that's what they called me. "

"But…" I was desperately trying to redeem him. "But you don't…I mean, you discovered how wrong you were in time…"

"That is also a lie."

Wait. He wasn't sorry? I saw a frightening darkness creeping into his eyes that I had never seen before. Away went the warmth, and in its place came a glazed, steely glint. The eyes of a criminal.

"Gregory dear." He was upsetting me now. "I don't understand you."

He straightened a bit. "You remember I said that I _had a change of heart_," he said, using finger quotes, and he shook his head. "That is a lie. I was never sorry. I turned all of them in, but not because I was sorry. It was because there was a very big money reward for whoever could assist in their capture. Very big."

A mixture of captivation and horror prevented me from doing much more than stare at him.

"There was this, ah, high-end kind of a prostitute. A courtesan, more like. I knew her since childhood. You have actually met her. You must have a sixth sense for immorality, because you don't like her very much…"

"Maria?" I gasped, stunned. "That…lady who…"

He nodded. "Yes, Maria. She was getting tired of her job, wanted to actually stay with a man, instead of saying goodbye to them every night. I told her I would get her a diamond ring and take her wherever she wanted, but I needed a lot of money to do this. So, to get the big money reward, I turned all those _mafiosos_ in. The police said I would be anonymous, but they still found out…"

Here he gestured to his scarred throat, and then bowed his head in conclusion.

"So," I reiterated numbly. "You betrayed the Mafia to get money for a ring, so you could marry a prostitute?"

"Yes."

Ten years of friendship, ten years of starry skies and poetry, tomato sauce and baklava, Luna Parks, tears and laughter…all of it just crumpled, like a napkin in a fist, and was gone. If it were not for the couch holding me up, I might have fallen, and fallen forever for all I cared.

"And now, here you are," Gregory murmured. "A notch in the bedpost."

"And you're not even sorry?"

"I have tried to be sorry." He stood up, but his posture still communicated miserable humility. "For months, years. It was you who inspired me to want to be sorry, to be entirely good. I see…" He touched my forehead, as though he were approaching a sacrament…"Sacred femininity in you. I never saw it before. And look what I've done. I had heaven in my hands, and I crushed it to pieces."

Behind the desolate form before me, I could just see the tiniest, faintest glimmer of the man I loved, as a star that is obscured behind the clouds.

"Are you sorry or not, Gregory?" I asked.

"I have never felt so sorry in my life."

"Then…"

"But if I were truly sorry, in the spirit, then what happened would not have happened. If someone believes something, then you see the belief worked out, in practical ways, and you know they believe. There is too much bad in me; there is not enough good to stand up against it, and now my badness is rubbing off on you…"

"Please, dear!" I grabbed his jacket and pleaded. "Don't!"

"This is why I must tell your Daddy." He grabbed me back, tears in his eyes. "Or, if you will not let me do that, then I must go. I cannot be trusted with you. There is enough love in me yet, little one, to know that I must save your reputation. There is a way I can do it."

"How?"

"Giovanni and Maria want me to go with them, back to Rome."

I grabbed him harder. "No…"

"And once I am good and gone…" His voice was more broken than I'd ever heard before…"You go to your Daddy and say that I raped you."

"What?" I almost screamed. "Raped…?"

"Yes. See? You say I forced you to tell him that it was a strange man, and that I said I'd kill you if you told before I could get away. Then there will be no shame for you, because you were forced. Everyone will be sorry, and not think any less of you. By the time they call the police, I will be across the Atlantic."

I saw the whole, terrible reality in my mind. Daddy weeping when I told him I was raped, everyone getting together and mourning, myself in bed, a little baby suckling at my breast. What would I tell the child? That his Daddy died in an accident? Got a fever? How would I ever be able to live?

Gregory knelt beside me and kissed my cheeks, fiercely and tenderly, as though he would never do so ever again, mingling his tears with mine.

"Ariel," he whispered, "If there is a ever a baby, tell him that his Daddy was a wonderful man. Tell him that, perhaps, he died protecting you from someone like me."

He left the room, leaving me on the couch, almost slain with grief. All around me were my ancestors, frozen on the wall. Their eyes bore into me, poor, wicked Ariel, who was now lying in the bed of shame she had prepared for herself. I could scarcely remember how it had all began. When had I gone so wrong?

I felt Mama's ring. From where I was, I could see their wedding portrait. There they were, eternally young in the summer of 1884, as they always would be, a beautiful monument to the holy, enduring marriage of Alfred and Apollonia Fleck. I looked into Mama's face and was heartbroken.

The door rattled, and into the gloom came Daddy.

"I've misjudged them," he said absently, sinking onto the couch beside me. "Damien and Genevieve. I've been a fool, and now…" He sort of looked at me, as though from a distance, dimly, his bleary, devastated eyes so different from the Daddy in the picture. He looked very old. "And now, what are we to do?"

I knew what I had to do, at least, and I meant it with all my contrite, broken heart.

"Daddy," I cried, huddling against him, "Please don't send me away. Please, don't. I love you. I'm sorry for being so bad."

He hugged me so tight that I could feel the metal brace through his clothes. "I would never send you away, baby."

"And, and Daddy, I broke my promise to you." I looked at him through my teary eyes. "I promised to take care of you always, in place of Mama, but I haven't. I've loved Mr. Y, and Genevieve, and strange men, but I haven't loved you. I will from now on, I promise. I promise!"

His hug loosened. "Ariel." He looked at me, where I lay against him, disturbed wonderment in his stare. "You took that…as an actual promise?"

"Didn't _you_, Daddy?"

There was a strange silence for a while, in which Daddy seemed to retreat into himself, contemplating, looking around the room, becoming increasingly unnerved by his thoughts. He looked across to the bedroom, where he and I slept. All at once he shuddered.

"Daddy?"

He swallowed and turned to me, shaking his head. "Ariel, when you first realized how you felt for Mr. Y, why didn't you tell me?"

I didn't quite know why. I was speechless, trying to understand what I had been thinking.

"Did you think," he went on, "That I would be upset?"

It wasn't what I had been thinking exactly, not in those words, but I never had felt free, at any time, to confess such a thing; I had never once challenged the rationale behind that inkling, either. I could not answer the question.

He didn't seem to need an answer, anyway, for it seemed he had found his answer.

"I've hurt you, Ariel," he moaned, hugging me and suddenly becoming emotional. "I've been hurting you, and I was too much of an unreasonable fool to even see it."

"What?"

"The day Mama died, you came and slept next to me," he continued, "And for two years, with the exception of last night, you've never left. I never even thought of it. It was comforting having you near me, comforting to know that I would never…have to see your Mama's place unoccupied."

We had never once discussed the fact that we slept in the same bed, no, not ever. It was strange, hearing him admit something that was usually left unspoken.

"And that's what happened. Mama died, you lay down in her place, and that's what you became." Daddy closed his eyes and trembled. "You stopped being my adult daughter and became Mama's replacement."

"I always thought…" (This whole concept was absolutely staggering to me) "I always felt as though you would be so lonely without me…"

He nodded, eyes moistening. "Exactly. I've been too busy sitting about, feeling sorry for myself, grieving for the past, never thinking that my little Ariel was becoming a woman, a sexual being, and she had no mother to help her understand it." The first tear slid into his tattoos. "Just a father who isn't courageous enough to do right by her."

"Daddy!" I cried, but he took my hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them and weeping, letting the full weight of the blame shift from me onto him.

That was a terrible night. It was, in many ways, like the night Mama died, for me and Daddy were once again trapped in a crisis, and could do little more than grieve. The fact that tomorrow was the last day of the season was nearly forgotten.

_**(Miss Fleck stops here for now.)**_


	22. The Last Day Of The Season

NOTES:

I had a surprisingly hard time writing this for some reason, but I believe it'll be smooth sailing from here out. If I don't split the next chapter, we've got three left. I'm real excited to pull out the OMG TWIST. Real excited.

Also, in honor of Niamh Perry's final performance as Miss Fleck, I made a pretty picture, called "Miss Fleck 2". It's over on my deviantart (littlelivewire). Look at it. It's hot.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Last Day Of The Season

Off the beaten path of Coney Island, after you passed the boarded-over, ghostly relics of the pre-electricity age and tiptoed through a narrow walk rife with tall grass and chirping insects, it was only a brief walk to the old piers by the sea, and perched on one was a place called Suicide Hall. It was where folks went when they didn't know where else to go. It was a place to step off the edge of the pier and quietly vanish into the surf, vanish from a world in which you were of no consequence, a world in which you were nothing but a failure, and a disgrace, and a fool.

The bar looked as old as the pier itself, constructed with the same loathsome, grimy planks whose filth glistened in the moonlight, with small windows always illuminated by firelight and salt spray, as ominous as the eyes of a brooding phantom; as you approached it, the walk beneath you moaned and creaked as if the spirits of the damned were yet endeavoring to call you back, or to merely bewail their own fates. This was the end of the pier, the end of the line, the end of hope.

The white-souled Flecks would never be seen in a place like this, but Gregory De Rossi would, and that's where I went at two o' clock in the morning on closing day. I hadn't slept.

"Maria," I had mumbled into the telephone sometime earlier. "Get a third ticket. I'm coming back to Italy with you."

A moment of silence, and then she breathed, exultantly, "Oh, Greg! _Davvero?"_

"_Si." _

A giggle was audible over the line. "Ah! _Mio caro!_ I knew you would come. I am always right, no?"

"You are always right."

"_Esattamente!" _Maria chirped. "I will tell Vanni right away. I will speak to you again soon, Greg! Never mind about money, we will take care of it all."

And that was that. After a decade of living a lie in America, I was going back to Italy, back to the Mediterranean sun, back to what I was before, with the people I truly belonged with. A whole ocean would separate me from Ariel, and perhaps our child, for the rest of my life. She would shortly become a dream of the past.

I pushed open the bar door with a grinding scrape that alerted the bartender to my presence.

"Good evening." He looked like the kind of guy who had been on the job long enough to know that his customers weren't exactly life's winners. "Well, technically it's morning, but you catch my drift. What can I get you?"

I wanted _Rosso_, and was promptly furnished with a full glass. Brushing the crumbs off my counter space, I settled down and sipped, eyes trailing dispassionately over the joint's failed, cluttered attempt at decoration, and wondering where I ever went wrong in my life. That I had a job to do in four hours didn't bother me in the least. I was going to lose my Ariel forever, and with her was all that made life beautiful. All that mattered now was the moment, my heartbeats, the taste of the wine flowing down my throat.

"One more."

There was another patron nearby, on the other end of the counter. I hadn't even seen him. Had his voice not been so familiar, I wouldn't have cared.

"I think you've had enough, don't you?" the bartender asked pointedly, eyeing the pile of empty bottles nearby. "You ain't going to be able to get out of bed for a spell…"

"One more, I said."

With a pained roll of the eyes, the bartender went over to where the beer was kept, and I took a closer look at my drinking companion. I blinked. It was Christine's husband, Raoul, our cantankerous carriage friend, but now he seemed too tired, too drunk to even complain. Clearly he didn't realize this place's reputation. Or did he? More to the point, why was this wealthy husband and father drinking himself into a hole at two in the morning?

He noticed me; I suddenly found myself under the scrutiny of two bleary eyes.

"You," he mumbled. "I've seen you."

I held up my voice trumpet as a clue.

"Yes. You were in the carriage." He frowned at the memory. "You're Dr. Something." With an unsteady lurch, he straightened up and yawned. "What're you doing…in a place like this?"

"Feeling bad."

"Wh…" He burped. "Why?"

"I lost my girl."

A drunk sort of amusement spread across Raoul's face. "You…got a girl? Who…?"

"You've seen her before." I don't know why I was confessing all this to him; I guess I just felt lonely. "In the carriage."

"Wait. Her? That…that bird girl? Who knows that Poe poe…m. The Poe po-um…"

The phrase 'Poe poem' turned out to be quite a tongue twister for the poor inebriated fellow, but he eventually got it all right.

"Yes."

He chuckled. "You two were… Ha, that's strange, I never…"

"Never what?"

It seemed too big a concept for a man as inebriated as Raoul to condense into words, but at length he sort of tossed up his hands and said, with the unknowing condescension so perfected by the wealthy, "I never thought that _you people_…you know, did that sort of thing."

He shrugged and smiled slightly, as if expecting me to admit that it was true, but I didn't, and he grew uncomfortable and went back to his beer with no further comments.

I couldn't sit there anymore. Down went the rest of the wine, and then I left. I wasn't even good enough to sit in Suicide Hall. Perhaps the pier would be an improvement.

)

(

)

On the way out, I nearly collided with Meg Giry; we both yelped and jumped, and after a brief moment of embarrassment, we recognized the other. In the moonlight, Meg's hair was bejeweled with water and straggled down a red and black bathing suit. She had been swimming? At this hour?

"Ah, pardon me," she mumbled, stepping around me and into the bar, leaving me alone, and before the door shut I heard her tell "Bernie" to get her a cup of coffee.

Coney Island to my right, Suicide Hall to my left, and there I sat on the pier's edge, trapped between heaven and hell.

The door clattered open after a bit, and out burst Meg, along with the sound of Raoul's shout, "Miss Giry! I'm not afraid of him! I've bested him before! And if he ever had the courage to meet me face to face, man to man…!"

But his only reply was Meg's rapidly vanishing form creaking along the pier boards and turning sharply onto land and out of sight.

She had departed so violently that the door had not latched shut. I looked at it, flapping in the sea breeze, troubled, but only for a moment more, for a conversation had begun.

Raoul's voice was silent, and then flabbergasted. "No…" he choked. "No, it can't be…"

"Not afraid of me, you say?" came a sinister voice that was undeniably that of Mr. Y!

I scrambled up and sat at the door's crack, out of sight, and through it I beheld the bewildering scene: Raoul on his feet, unsteadily grabbing the bar, and an unmasked Mr. Y, leaning on it, a sinister smile clashing eerily with his twisted deformity.

"Look at you," he crowed, voice dripping with glee. "Deep in debt. Stinking drunk. Pitiful. The years have not been kind, have they, Vicomte?"

Drunk though he was, Raoul made a mighty effort at lunging, and succeeded only in crashing into a chair. "You!" he yelled, his anger tainted with terror. "Stay back, or I'll kill you, I promise you!"

Mr. Y seemed to doubt it. "So I see. Well, as you've said, you've beaten me before." He crossed over the bar and advanced on him, unafraid. "But that was a long time ago. We were playing a different game. Care to try another?"

"Another what?"

"Another game, a wager, if you will." Mr. Y lowered his voice tantalizingly, his eyes agleam. "With much higher stakes."

It seemed that Raoul wanted nothing more than to strike him down, but the temptation of destroying Mr. Y at his own game was too great. He leaned forward, sneering, but there was hunger in his voice as he asked, "Which would be?"

"Christine."

"Christine?" Raoul cried. "What do you…?"

"Our Christine shall choose at last," Mr. Y replied, drawing closer. "Is she yours, or is she mine? We will let her decide."

"Let her choose." Raoul sat back and laughed, shaking his head with at least some confidence to temper the drunkenness. "She did once; let her do it again! Draw the stakes, deal me in!"

"Very well. If she sings, she has chosen me, in which you immediately leave."

"And if I win?"

"If she will not, I shall pay off any and all debts you have, and let all of you leave."

The man must've been swimming in debt, for his eyebrows flew up at the promise of having it paid off.

"You lost once, and you will lose again," he smirked, more confident than ever. "We've a son, Christine and I. What makes you think she'd forsake our child?"

Mr. Y's eyes became like two glowing embers as he rose to his full height and pulled out the proverbial ace. "Your child?" he inquired ruthlessly, his smile twisting his deformity. "Are you very certain of that?"

Raoul tensed. "What do you mean?"

"Such a child, that Gustave. Strange, musical. Does he remind you more of you…or me?"

"You are lying, bluffing." Raoul leapt to his feet, wildly denying it. "I'll take your little wager. Devil take the hindmost!"

Mr. Y nodded, as though praising a particularly good monologue. "Very well. Let us review the stakes once more." With an alarmingly fast motion, he lunged forward and pinned Raoul to the bar, hissing, "If she walks, you leave together, pockets full, debts paid! If she sings, you leave alone. Agreed?"

"Agreed!" the other growled.

Mr. Y let him go, and they shook hands as though they'd sooner throttle each other.

This new revelation amazed me. Mr. Y had a son! Gustave's little voice, solemnly intoning "The Raven", echoed in my mind. I hustled back to Phantasma.

)

(

)

September the third, 1907: the last day of the regular season. It was, in a practical sense, a fond farewell to the sultry, carefree summer days, an absurd tip-of-the-hat to the never-ending cycle of the seasons, which would shortly cool the air and color the leaves in preparation for the deep freeze of winter, that solemn and strange time.

Phantasma was more mobbed than it had been on opening day, if that were possible. Folks from all over were coming to see our closing day line-up. Christine Daae was a major draw, and Mr. Y had also prepared a special hall of automatons, the "American history" exhibits, and offered free ice-pops by the Crystal Fountain. It was looking to be fun day for just about everyone but Mr. Y's Trio.

Then there was the little dilemma I'd overheard at the bar. Perhaps Christine would not sing at all, and leave with Raoul. Perhaps she would, and stay with Mr. Y. As I walked to breakfast, I looked at myself and the whole world of Phantasma as though I were truly seeing it for the first time. It was all for that woman. Ten years of back-breaking work, all for this one uncertain moment tonight.

I looked up at the Ayrie, into those glass eyes. It occurred to me, for the very time, that they were just glass.

)

(

)

Breakfast might have been livelier if it weren't for the previous night's shocking events. As I walked to my seat, there was chatter, but it was subdued, nervous, as though Alf would presently come to attack someone again. Damien and Genevieve had come together, which surprised me, although I didn't notice them at first. They had chosen seats off to the side and were eating wordlessly, faces pale, behaving as though they had no right to be eating in public in the first place. Alf and Ariel were not present.

"Good morning, De Rossi," greeted little Mr. Geddes behind his newspaper, which obscured his whole body. "Hell of a night, last night. Have you seen the Flecks yet?"

"That's what I was going to ask you."

"Ah." He put the paper down. "I'll be interested to find out just what in the heck happened last night. I tell you, I've known Alf even before he was married, and I've never seen him get that angry, not even close to it. First time I ever heard him swear, too!"

I realized I'd never heard him swear before then either.

"Listen, De Rossi, you're sort of in the know with them; do you have any idea what went on?"

"Well…" I began cautiously, unsure of what to say. "I can't…"

Ultimately, I didn't have to say anything, for at that moment, Alf and Ariel entered the tent, and with them came an expectant, nervous silence.

Ariel looked as though she hadn't slept all night. If it weren't for her rigid corsets holding her posture erect, she likely would've just slumped over, and Alf didn't look much better. The last time the Fleck duo looked this bad, they were standing beside Polly's open coffin, shaking hands.

It seemed that Alf had an announcement, because he didn't sit down. Ariel gave me a sad good morning nod and went over to hug Genevieve.

"Er, everyone," announced Alf meekly. "I want to apologize for the way I acted last night. It was completely unacceptable. What's more, I have been tremendously unfair to the Pennysworths. None of what I accused them of is true. I apologized to them last night privately, but now I do so publicly."

At this, Damien nodded seriously. Ariel was still hugging Genevieve, and judging by the way she was stroking her hair, one or both of them had burst into tears.

"Furthermore," Alf went on, "I used poor language in the presence of a great many ladies, to say nothing of how frightening I must have been. I am very sorry, everyone. Nothing like this will ever happen again."

There was a great nodding of heads and murmurs of forgiveness as he shuffled awkwardly to his seat, his great tattooed head bowed. Ariel finally released Genevieve and wiped her eyes. A last kiss on the cheeks passed between the two of them, and then my beloved Signorina (if I could even still call her that) came over to me and sat down.

We did not speak. There was nothing to say. I wondered if I ought to tell her what I had overheard at the bar that morning regarding Mr. Y and the parentage of Gustave, but decided against it, seeing no need to deepen her disillusionment with the world of men.

)

(

)

There were stacks of flyers on Mr. Y's piano, huge stacks; it was the first thing I noticed when we entered. The Ayrie was tidy. Over in the corner, Mr. Y was sitting cross-legged on a couch, his lap covered in paper, snapping his fingers like a metronome and humming as he made quick notations. He was clearly composing.

He stopped abruptly when he saw us. "Ah," he said. "Good morning. Last day of the season. Big night tonight."

Knowing what I did about his little wager, I nodded.

"Today you do your big promotional stunt at the beach; I've got the balloon prepared and these flyers ready. Noon is when you'll need to do that. Now, if you've no questions, you two…" He gestured to me and Alf…"May go. I would like Miss Fleck to stay for a bit."

Alf didn't move. Having learned what he did about Mr. Y's identity, he was clearly prepared to take a more suspicious approach to Ariel being left alone with him.

Mr. Y felt his unease and immediately bristled. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Fleck?"

"Yes." Alf replied firmly, not skipping a beat. "I would prefer it if she came with me."

There was the loudest silence I ever heard as Mr. Y stared at Alf like he was insane, eyes flashing, and then he raised his head a bit, his voice frigid. "But _I _would prefer it if she were to stay here, as I have said."

Alf sat down on a nearby chair. "Then I will stay here, as well."

Ariel blushed and looked from me, to Alf, to the door, to Mr. Y, at a loss for what to do.

"There is no business between you and my daughter that her father cannot be present to witness as well," Alf explained, in what was clearly an ultimatum.

It was clear that Mr. Y had never expected to be crossed, especially not by ol' Alf, and both rage and shock were battling it out on his face, which was trembling quite alarmingly. But suddenly, it softened, and he became completely calm again. It seemed a funny thought had broken up the contention.

"My dear sir," he chuckled lightly. "If you are only now looking to be an effective chaperone, you have failed."

Alf frowned, blinking. "Failed?"

Mr. Y massaged his unmasked temple, sighing, trying to find words to express himself. His cheeks grew pink. At last he looked towards all three of us in an awkward sort of way.

"I was hoping to deal with this privately, but…" He shrugged and folded his hands. "Listen. I understand that sexuality is a natural part of life, but, please, the next time you…" He pointed at Ariel…"And you…" He pointed at me…"Decide to enjoy each other, please refrain from doing so in my garage. The noise was very alarming to come home to."

Then Mr. Y put his face in his hand.

I think Ariel and I both died at the exact same time. If I didn't, I shortly would, for Alf's face looked as though the first rays of hellfire were dawning across it as he slowly turned in my direction. I was a dead man.

"I understand there's a lot on your mind right now," sighed Mr. Y, referring to Alf, who wasn't hearing, "But do remember the flyers at noon."

Before he even gave us the go-ahead to leave, I turned and ran for my life. Out the Ayrie door, down the stairs, faster than I'd ever gone down them, towards the outside entrance. I was fast.

Alf, unfortunately, was a lot faster.

Before I could even grab the door-latch, his hands crushed the collar of my jacket, sending my rubber snakes flapping and knocking me off balance. An almighty thrust, and I found myself nailed to the floor, my shirt screwed up in Alf's fist, and I was inches from his infuriated face.

"So," came his sepulchral growl, which echoed horribly in the staircase and reverberated through my skull. "It wasn't just some strange man off the street."

From far above, I could hear creaks and Ariel's feathers shuffling as she hurried down the stairs, crying, "Oh, Daddy! No! Don't! _Daddy!"_

My blood froze as I awaited the merciless beating I deserved, but it didn't come, at least not yet. A crack seemed to pierce Alf's hardened face. Sorrow was contaminating his fury.

"It was someone…" His growl was downright hurt. "It was someone I trusted."

And then his eyes sort of unfocused and grew misty, and his grip loosened. My stomach turned with disgust at myself for hurting the man. I just wished he'd beat me instead. Anything but this.

"Daddy!" Ariel continued to scream, still running down, coming closer. "Please, don't!"

But Alf had let me go. Where he had just looked grief-stricken, there was blankness, a dumb, unknowing sort of expression. He seemed to be looking behind me. A quick look verified that there was nothing there, but he continued staring, and all at once, he brought one of his hands up to his face and started curling his fingers.

"Alf?" I waved my hand, but he didn't seem to see.

Ariel finally reached the base of the stairs, chest heaving and hat askew.

"Ariel, he's acting strange," I interrupted, before she could say anything. "Like he doesn't see me."

"Doesn't see you?"

"No. See, he's just staring…"

"Daddy?" She hustled over, and after one look she quickly ordered, "Help me sit him down. He's about to have a fit."

Easier said than done, coaxing a big fellow like Alf down, but between the two of us we managed it, and once on the floor he clenched his fists and started to shiver violently, as though seized by a bitter wind. Ariel sat beside him and stroked his head, her countenance grieved.

"Open the door," she said. "If he comes around in the dark, he'll be afraid."

The shaking went on for only about a minute more. Not long after I propped open the base entrance, Alf's hands dropped, his muscles relaxed, and he started feeling stupidly around, as though he had transformed into a big toddler. The abrupt change from murderous Daddy to helpless seizure victim was really jarring.

"Ariel," he mumbled sadly, his face disturbed, like she was missing. "Ariel's hurt."

Ariel kept stroking his head, as tender as a mother. "Ssh," she hushed him. "I'm not hurt."

He blinked and looked right at her. "Ariel's hurt."

"I'm Ariel, Daddy," she told him. "And I'm not hurt. See? Ariel's not hurt."

Alf looked away as though no one would ever understand, and his eyes fell on me. "Where?" he asked.

Ariel answered for me. "You're in the Ayrie, Daddy. The base of the Ayrie. You'll feel better in a few moments."

It was surreal, sitting beside Alf in the dark, listening to him ramble about nonsense in Ariel's lap, but at length his wits returned to him. Suddenly he blinked hard and jolted. He coughed and sat up; one could tell by the look in his eyes that he was truly coherent again.

"Did I…?" he started to ask.

"A seizure? Yes, you did, Daddy," Ariel replied, patting his back. "A shivering one. No thrashing. Fairly quick. You talked for a little while, too."

Alf stretched and sighed unhappily. "Talking too, hmm?" He looked towards the stairs. "Did I fall down?"

"No, we were already all the way down. You started doing the hand thing, you know?"

"I know." Grimacing, he rose to his feet and stretched some more. "So we've already been in the Ayrie, then. I declare I don't remember much of anything about today now, dang it. What did Mr. Y tell us to do?"

The Alleluia chorus started singing majestically in my heart, although I knew it was awful to revel in Alf's mental issues_. He didn't remember anymore! The seizure had wiped it clean!_

Ariel shot me an equally amazed look before gently telling him, "He just told us to remember the flyers at noon. The hot air balloon, remember…?"

A scraping clatter far above indicated that Mr. Y himself was coming down.

"And we need to hurry along now, Daddy," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door. "We'll be late."

So out went the Flecks, but before they vanished around the corner, Ariel put her hand on her face like a mask while making her other yap, all in the space of about three seconds. Then they were gone.

"Is that you, Mr. Y?" I called up, feigning ignorance.

"Yes!" he replied. "I decided I'd come down and verify that I still have a living Trio."

"You do! I know Alf…er, Mr. Fleck…looked a bit murderous up there, but it was all in the heat of the moment. He's quite alright with it now."

All I heard were footsteps for a while. It was a skeptical sort of silence.

"So he truly isn't upset? He calmed down just like that?"

"Just like that."

A last few stairs, and then Mr. Y was at my level. "You'd think he'd be furious by the way he insisted on chaperoning me and Miss Fleck," he marveled, shaking his head. "As if I were some sort of dangerous fiend."

I chuckled at the irony. "Ha. Dangerous fiend."

"In hindsight, I suppose it was foolish of me to blurt that out, though; I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking. I was flustered, I suppose. I apologize."

"Ah, well, it's fine now. No harm done. If anything, I guess I should apologize for the lady and I, you know…in your garage."

"I'll forgive you if you tell me one thing." He pointed towards the garage door with an outstretched palm. _"Why in there?"_

"Ah…" I looked into the grimy depths of the place and shrugged in embarrassment. "Well, she left a hanky in the carriage, you know, and she had to bend over to pick it up…and, ah…"

He snorted with amusement, raising his hand. "That is sufficient, thank you."

"So you're not upset, sir?"

"I have issues far more pressing than the sex lives of my employees," he said smoothly. "Anyhow, please inform Miss Fleck that I moved the white dress down into her dressing room, just in case she needs to understudy tonight."

I knew full well why, but I felt the need, if only in a morbid way, to see evidence of the wager. "Understudy? The show is only hours away."

Mr. Y turned, his face unreadable, and ascended the stairs. "Anything," he said softly, "Can happen."

)

(

)

The noonday sun put a halo of light around the cheery globe of the hot air balloon as Alf verified and re-verified that it was safe to fly. Ariel and me stood nearby, arms full of flyers.

"Looks reasonably sound to me," the man declared. "Come on in!"

I still couldn't believe that he seriously had no memory of what had been revealed in the Ayrie, but unlike before I felt no sense of victory, only shame. I'd been given a preview of the devastation that Alf, my good ol' friend of ten years, would be feeling in a few days when my sorry hide was good and gone.

The flyers were piled on one side of the basket, which took up a surprising amount of space that had not been accounted for. I'd say a little less than half.

Ariel put a foot in, mentally measuring with a grim expression. "Er, how are both we and the flyers supposed to fit?"

A plan was concocted to make the piles higher and put some of them sideways, which helped, but there still wasn't much free space, and noon was gaining on us. We had to make do, and by that I mean we crammed ourselves in that basket like a tin of freakish sardines. I ended up squashed against the basket wall, next to a sideways stack, and since big Alf could only fit towards the door, where most of the flyers had been removed, Ariel had to press her body right up against mine.

"This," grunted Alf, squeezing in, making her press closer, "Is unreasonable."

Up we went. A spot of pink bloomed on both of Ariel's cheeks. Every time she breathed, I could feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine, and she knew it. We kept our eyes to the ground, but this was a completely useless tactic considering what we knew about the other's body. No imagination, just reality. It was impossible to be so close to Ariel, and not recall the round, pleasing softness of her belly and thighs, so unlike the sharp, soldier's armor of a corset, comforting and…

No! I swallowed and concentrated on the tallest protruding buildings growing smaller, ever smaller. Not bigger. Certainly not. That would be embarrassing.

Ariel felt the same, I could tell, but with her Daddy right there I bet it was even worse for her. She knew a couple things about me in terms of inches that would bleach the tattoos clean off his face.

And after this, we would never see each other again. Oh, it was not fair. It was not fair at all, that god-awful balloon ride. It made me very sad.

"There's the beach!" sighed Alf gratefully as it came into view at last. "Now we can finally rid ourselves of these flyers!"

All along the strip of sparkling sand, people traipsed about in varying states of undress, lugging picnic baskets and sitting under multicolored circles of umbrellas, carefree as you like, and when we floated into view all their shining faces lifted towards us. At length they were all grouped together, pointing and cheering. I guess they thought we were coming to toss out free ice-pops.

We didn't land, but we lowered a bit so they could hear our spiel.

Ariel would remember the lyrics, but I sure don't. In a nutshell, we invited everyone (in three-part harmony) to come see Christine Daae, and then we finally got to throw those damn flyers out of the basket. It was only thing we were genuinely enthusiastic about all day.

People ran about, jumping and catching them like it was free money as we tossed and tossed, sending Christine's beautiful face soaring through the noonday sky by the dozens, and at last there was space in the basket for us to move apart and have some breathing room.

"Thank God!" puffed Alf, stretching.

Ariel, however, didn't immediately move. She remained against me for a moment, giving me a little look only I could understand, and then she sadly moved away. Watching the thousands of Christines flutter around Ariel's white little face reinforced my belief that I would shortly lose someone who was utterly irreplaceable, one in a million, a true original. The ocean waves in the distance crashed, along with the last vestiges of my joy. We were down to the last few hours.

)

(

)

The next thing I remember is sitting in the wings of Mr. Y's concert hall with Alf and Ariel, watching the last thing on earth I needed to see, namely, "Bathing Beauty, a charming little number in which Meg eventually ended up topless. I just looked at the floor. Ariel looked like she was praying. Alf was having an intense conversation with a stagehand about things "in his day". Just about everyone but us was having a good time.

You'd think that Ariel and I would be talking, seeing as we only had a few hours left together, but we didn't. We couldn't. It was something between sadness and denial. If we were to talk, that would be like admitting we only had a little while left, and it was too painful to even think about. Two performances left before Christine, and then Phantasma's first season, as well as my relationship with Ariel, would be over.

When at last Meg and her girls went prancing offstage, I announced Alf's performance with the last of my enthusiasm and sat right back down with Ariel.

"Christine's on after this," Ariel said.

I didn't look at her. "Yes."

Alf slid weights onto the curling bar, counting them out in fifty-pound increments as everyone clapped and oohed.

"I have a lot of penance to do," Ariel randomly said again.

"Penance?"

"Yes. Last night, Daddy took me to church so I could make a full confession and be absolved." She pulled a rosary out of her pocket, and then put it back again. "I've been carrying this about all day, trying to get a head start."

"Oh."

I was not trying to be heartless, giving her one-word responses like that. On the contrary, I was so hurt and sad that it was all I could take, just to answer her at all. I wished she would just be quiet.

"When are you leaving?" Ariel asked feebly, tears filling her eyes as she watched her father.

My throat swelled. I wanted to say never. "Giovanni and Maria say I may come to their place tonight, to be ready to leave in a day or so."

Silence. Alf lifted a dumbbell vertically, to great uproar.

Ariel wiped her eyes. "Charles made me a nest, you know."

"The peacock?"

"Yes. Just today. He stole bedding from the other birds and made a nest, right on my throne. I can't believe it. All ready for me…" She touched her belly…"To lay an egg in it. As though he knows…"

I tried to watch Alf pick up an engine, tried to forget that I'd soon never see him or Ariel (or my baby?) again, but the scene swam and blurred in front of me. "Why are you telling me this?" I almost yelled, but only succeeded in croaking. "Why now?"

"Because," Ariel murmured hopelessly, "I'll never be able to tell you anything ever again."

Our eyes met in the dimness of the wings, as they had done so many times before throughout the course of ten years, but never as heartbroken as this. I would remember her eyes. Yes, I would always remember them, their thoughtful bands of green, the way they lit up just for me. But then, for all time, my mind would always wander back to this moment, the moment I told her goodbye, on Phantasma's closing day.

I reached out, although I shouldn't have, to touch her shoulder, and before I knew it she was digging out a hanky to dry my eyes.

Applause exploded out on stage. Alf took his last bow of the season and walked off, taking a long drag from a cup of water.

"Christine's up next," he puffed after a swallow, but when he looked at us he froze. "Why…you're both crying! What's wrong? Ariel, are you feeling sick?"

"I'm leaving, Alf," I said.

He stared at me. "Leaving?" he growled in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"Leaving with my brother, going home to Italy." I couldn't look him in the eye. "Going back with my family. I didn't know how to break the news, so I hesitated, and now it's come down to the last minute."

"So you're leaving tonight?"

"No. I'm staying with Giovanni tonight, but I'm leaving tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

Ariel's face slid into her hands with a pitiful little choke, and Alf took her into his arms, his eyes sad and his tattoos still and solemn as a statue.

"First thing in the morning?" he repeated, as though he couldn't believe it.

"Yes."

He comforted Ariel for a minute, and then he told me, softly, "We'll certainly miss you, De Rossi. Sure we will. You've been a real friend to everyone here. We'll hate to see you go. But you've got your family. You never know how long you've got left with them."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Thank you," he went on, extending his hand, "For everything you've done for me and Ariel. You're one of the most reasonable men I've ever known."

A tear snuck into my collar as I shook his hand, and all at once he hauled me into a rough embrace, after which we were both rather overcome, and Alf had to blow his nose. Suddenly Ariel jumped up and hugged us both, and we hugged her, and all three of broke down and wept. It was one of the last things we ever did together as the Trio.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a young man better suited to announcing a diva than me, "Christine Daae."

We wiped our eyes to behold the woman herself, clad in a dress of lavender and gold, making her way to center stage like an empress. For all her beauty, however, the fear in her eyes infected it all with a spasm of tension that only I fully understood. This was more than stage fright. This was a decision.

In the wings opposite us, I made out the whiteness of Mr. Y's mask. He was watching. A clatter of heels, and suddenly Raoul was nearby, on our side, his jaw tight, a letter in his hands. Two men, one woman standing between them. This was the moment, the crossroads, and with a wave of the baton, the orchestra played the melody we'd all come to know.

Christine stood as though transfixed in her little spotlight. She did not look at either side. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded. The violin gently hummed her cue.

Silence. Neither orchestra nor singer made a sound. Raoul leaned forward. Mr. Y grabbed the wall. Still, Christine was silent. She trembled.

"Is she ill?" Alf whispered. "She's not…"

But at that moment, Christine raised her head and issued forth the first few notes, as beautiful and terrified as a little bird.

"_Who knows when love begins?_

_Who knows what makes it start?_

_One day, it's simply there, alive inside your heart…"_

Mr. Y stepped forward, the first light of ecstasy illuminating his eyes. He had done it.

"_It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul,_

_It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control…"_

Christine turned to him briefly, but then she looked at Raoul, her eyes begging him to understand.

"_Try to deny it, and try to protest,_

_But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed…"_

The man bowed his head in defeat.

"_Love never dies, love never falters,_

_Once it has spoken, love is yours._

_Love never fades , love never alters,_

_Hearts may get broken; love endures. _

_Hearts may get broken; love endures."_

Tearing himself away from the sight, Raoul smoothed out his letter and approached Alf.

"You may inform your boss," he intoned darkly, "That I have left alone, as I promised. He has won."

Alf's forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. "I don't understand."

Raoul began walking away. "The wager. Christine is his."

"His?" sputtered Alf, aghast. "But she's your…wait!"

He rose and followed the man offstage, protesting all the while, leaving my beloved Ariel and me alone in the dark wings. I clasped her close to my heart and listened on.

"_And soon as you submit, surrender flesh and bone,_

_That love takes on a life much bigger than your own._

_It uses you at whim, and drives you to despair,_

_And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear._

_Love gives you pleasure, and love gives you pain._

_And yet, when both are gone,_

_Love will still remain."_

I hugged Ariel tighter. Yes. That was so very true.

Across the way, Mr. Y was in thrall to Christine's music, clutching his hand to his heart, his eyes closed, his dream to hear her sing for him again being fulfilled at last. If he were not a man he might have been lifted from the ground like an angel, so intense was his joy. He was like a different person. Alf rejoined us, but was silent.

Christine looked at him and rang forth, triumphantly, the orchestra swelling with her:

"_Love never dies, love will continue,_

_Love keeps on beating when you're gone!_

_Love never dies, once it is in you…_

_Life may be fleeting, love lives on!_

_Life may be fleeting…"_

The woman lowered her head, smiling, the last notes of her aria lingering like a breeze of perfume.

"_Loves lives on." _

The house rose to their feet as one to applaud her, followed by the backstage, everyone in the wings, and even the kids operating the lights. Alf dabbed his eyes and kissed his wedding band. Mr. Y, his face radiant with stage lights and joy, took to the stage with a bunch of white roses, which he humbly presented to Christine. She accepted them into her arms, and together, they bowed as the curtain fell.

"Ah, Christine!" he cried. "Quel triomphe!"

She embraced him, breathless. "Il était beau, Erik. Ah, c'était merveilleux !"

The backstage continued to applaud them as they hurried off to the dressing room. And that was that. The season was over. Freaks and stagehands alike started toasting each other and cracking out the cigars.

But all I knew was Ariel, who was still reclining in my arms.

"My love will live on, too," she whispered to me.

"Well, that's a wrap, folks!" I heard Mr. Geddes cheer. "Our first season!"

There was scattered applause and whistles. With loud snaps, the stage lights were shut off, and the rumble of the audience could be heard as they spilled back out into Phantasma.

"Here's to the 1908 season being even better!" added Damien. "C'mon, everyone, let's head down to the dining tent and have a celebration!"

"A celebration? Swell!"

"I'm up for a celebration! Where'd I leave my hat…we need to put our costumes away first…"

At length, everyone left, giddy with mirth, cheering about parties and champagne, and when the doors shut behind them, the concert hall seemed to suddenly become a ghost town. Me, Ariel, and Alf just stood there together, quiet, like three ghosts.

"He's gone, that man," Alf eventually growled. "That Raoul fellow. He isn't coming back for his wife; no, not even for his…well, the child."

Ariel sat up a little. "What do you mean, Daddy?"

"This whole…" Alf struggled for a word. "This whole set-up, this song, this evening…all of it was just that. A set-up. A wager. Mr. Y has won."

He said it with enough distaste to pique Ariel's curiosity even further. "He won?"

"Yes, dear. He won Christine."

Won Christine?" she stammered, oblivious. "When?"

Alf raised his eyes to the stage, as though he were seeing it again.

"Just now, singing that song. Raoul told me. It was a bet. Apparently, little Gustave is actually Mr. Y's child." His voice darkened. "Conceived prior to Christine's marriage to Raoul. Tonight, they made a bet. If Christine didn't sing, she would go on living with her husband and have their debts paid. If she did, and we know she did, then she would stay with Mr. Y, and Raoul would have to leave, alone, which he did in my presence."

This revelation wasn't new to me, but Ariel was stunned into speechlessness.

"I know," said Alf. "I feel the same."

"His child." Ariel breathed. "Mrs. Y's own son. Do you…do you think he knows this, Daddy?"

He tossed up a hand. "Not the foggiest idea. But I'll tell you what…" He looked in the direction where Mr. Y had gone. "I don't have a whole lot of respect for men who make children and then hit the trail."

That cut me to the core. Ariel's woeful eyes glanced at me and then looked away.

"But that's his life, I guess." Alf grunted. "We'll just forget it. Do the others know that you're going, De Rossi?"

"No."

"Huh! Well, we ought to tell them, throw _you _the celebration…"

The pain I felt in the face of Alf's good-hearted friendship was almost too much to take. If he knew why I was leaving…

"It's really not necessary, Alf."

But his big arm went slapping around my back. "Nonsense! I insist! You simply must have a celebration. No arguments! I guess I can spend a little money on a friend like you, this one last time."

To hide her sudden tears, Ariel spun around and knelt next to a discarded pink bathing costume that had been forgotten after the "Bathing Beauty" routine.

"Oh, look," she sniffed, picking it up and heading rapidly away. "Meg forgot one of the bathing suits. I'll put it in her dressing room for her."

Alf's grip on my shoulder loosened a bit as he watched her go, able to see right through her cover. He bowed his poor old head.

"She's really going to miss you, De Rossi," he told me unhappily. "Please be sure to write to her often. She'll likely have some difficult times ahead. I take it she's told you about…?"

"The baby? Yes." I swallowed. "I know all about it."

We headed down towards where Ariel had gone, away from the stage and into the narrow hallway of dressing rooms. Madame Giry passed us with an armful of props.

"I hope Ariel isn't too broken up," Alf sighed, glancing at the doors for Meg's name as we went along. "She doesn't need it right now. Starting tomorrow, I'm putting her to bed for rest; we need to start watching for signs of morning sickness—"

Mr. Y's yell, coming from the next dressing room, shattered the silence. "…a child that isn't his! Why, I…Mr. Squelch! Is that you out there?"

He immediately stuck his head in. "Sir?"

It was a strange scene. In the dressing room, Mr. Y was leaning over the table as though he would dash it to pieces, and off to the side, Christine was hurriedly tossing a jacket over a walking dress, the picture of motherly panic. When we hustled in, he ran over, wasting no time.

"Raoul de Chagny," he demanded, seizing Alf by the shoulders. "Did you see him leave? Was he alone?"

There was the slightest hint of haughtiness to Alf's reply. "I saw him leave in a hired carriage with my own eyes, sir. There was no one with him."

"Are you _quite certain_ he left here alone?"

"Absolutely certain. If I may ask why…?"

"Gustave is missing," Christine moaned. "He was meant to be here, in this dressing room, waiting for me; I don't understand where else he could possibly have gone."

Alf peeked behind him, out the door. "Were there any unusual people here backstage?"

"Madame Giry." Mr. Y murmured it quietly, but darkness entered his eyes. "She was here. Yes, and that comment she made…"

"Comment?"

"The vicious back-biting snake!" he seethed, turning and smacking the dressing table. "That she would dare….no! Quickly, you two, go find her!"

Scarcely able to refuse in the face of such fury, Alf and me headed back into the hall, bewildered and at a loss for what to do next.

"We just saw her going that way," Alf said, pointing in the direction we'd come. "Maybe she didn't get far! Land sakes, if life isn't one thing after another anymore!"

Back down the narrow hall, into the stage wings, around the stage door. The place was dark and empty, just as we'd left it. All we got in reply to our cries were echoes.

"Madame Giry!" I called. "If you can hear me, Mr. Y needs you! Madame Giry!"

Alf went around the front of the stage. "Madame Giry!"

"Eh? Who is calling?"

The woman herself appeared in the hall. Not having a free hand available, she propped open a side door with her foot and stumbled in, carrying costumes in a box.

"Mr. Y needs you, this instant," Alf said. "It's very important."

Unmoved by our urgency, she sniffed and kept walking with her box.

"So now he needs me," she said with a sarcastic little chuckle. "You may tell Mr. Y that if the issue is particularly pressing, he may come see either Meg or I at our home, if he can stand to condescend to our level. Good evening."

Alf followed her. "You don't understand. He's insisting."

"I shall see to it that the blame lies with me, not with you. Good evening."

"But Gustave…!"

This only lent a furious speed to her steps. "His love-children are no concern of m-"

Alf was a gentleman, but I wasn't. I clenched my hand around the retreating woman's upper arm, causing her to stop so abruptly that her box went tumbling to the floor.

"I don't have all day, lady," I told her bluntly. "Would you prefer to walk or be carried?"

)

(

)

She preferred to walk, although she hissed like a French alley cat the whole way, promising retribution and torture for this breach of propriety, but I still hauled her along, not giving a damn one way or the other. Alf toddled along in tow, with a flustered I'm-sorry-it-came-to-this expression.

"What is the meaning of this?" she shrieked upon seeing Mr. Y. "How dare your minions manhandle me in this fashion? I demand an answer!"

He came back twice as vigorously. "The boy, woman!" His eyes narrowed. "What have you done with him?"

Shock rendered her speechless for a moment, but she regained control and met his gaze, unafraid. "The…boy? You think I took the boy? Why would I do such a thing?"

Mr. Y raised his eyebrows, as though expecting an explanation. Christine folded her hands and trembled.

"Do you think," Madame Giry sneered, "That I don't know _who _he is?"

MORE NOTES:

It's an awkward place to cut off, but the next part of this really needs to be narrated by Miss Fleck. Trust me!

Thanks for reading (and tolerating) "City of Wonders"!


	23. The Tragedy

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Tragedy

The white, herby aroma of 'Edwardian Bouquet' breezed around me when I pushed open Meg Giry's door, allowing me a brief moment of levity as I identified it; then it was back to the lousy old earth again with its miseries, including the current task at hand. I went the costume rack, put the bathing costume on it, and hung it up. There. It was all squared away, tucked in with its other colorful compatriots. She had some very nice dresses, that Meg, and was always getting new ones. People never really knew, but she liked to sew. A lot of those dresses were her own creation.

Maybe if I asked nicely, she would help me alter mine to accommodate a pregnant belly. A nursing robe would come in handy, too. Humans' senses were weak, but animals like Charles were rarely wrong.

Black, mascara-streaked tears keep sliding into my collar. As flippantly sarcastic as I tried to be, it just wouldn't numb the pain. He was leaving. This was it. The man I loved was leaving. I would never see him anymore. I dropped onto Meg's side couch and wept bitterly.

I did not stop until I looked up into the mirror, which to my shock was smashed, all in pieces on the floor. I sat up. A whole host of puffy-eyed Ariels in all different sizes, skewed and twisted, stared back at me, in stark contrast to the pasted snippets of Mary Pickford and Polaire, and while I was yet looking one slipped off the back frame and broke, mingling with the remnants of a hair tonic bottle. Indignation overpowered my grief. Why, who would do something like this? Surely not Meg herself!

Wiping my eyes, I pulled myself together as best as I could and headed into the hall. Someone had to be aware of this.

"You…insolent!" I heard Madame Giry's guttural French voice hissing. "That you dare to…!"

Gregory interrupted sternly. "Give it a rest!"

"It _was _necessary, you know," Daddy mumbled in apology. "Very important."

A door down the hall clattered open, and in they went. Before it shut again, I heard Mr. Y yell something, to which Madame Giry came back with equal force. What in the world was going on? At any rate, I knew I had to inform them of my discovery.

The voices became more distinct as I grew closer.

"Do you think…" Here I opened the door, amplifying Madame Giry's voice… "I don't know who he is?"

"Sir!" I piped up, and every face in the room turned swiftly to me. From where I was standing, I could see Christine Daae between Madame Giry and Mr. Y, as though trying to break up a fight, and Daddy standing with Gregory to the left. It seemed that I was interrupting something troubling; perhaps my discovery could wait.

But Mr. Y cocked his eyebrow expectantly. "Miss Fleck?"

"I just passed Meg's dressing room, sir," I reported, uncomfortably aware that everyone was staring at me, "And her mirror is all smashed to pieces."

The effect on the room was astonishing; Madame Giry brought her hand to her face, Mr. Y looked at Christine, and a general air of foreboding, quite unlike the usual indignation that accompanies vandalism, filled the air.

Bewildered, I went over to Daddy, who hugged me and tidied up my cheeks with a hanky. Gregory gave me a little pat.

"What happened, Daddy?" I whispered.

"God," moaned Madame Giry, paling, "I left her so destroyed. Who knows what she was thinking."

Mr. Y frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The performance, the child, everything!" She seemed to shrink in her fear; all at once we were looking at a shadow of Madame Giry's hauteur. "All these years of toil, Mr. Y, to know that all we achieved would shortly become Christine's and the child's! All she ever wanted was for you to see her, just once!"

"Giry!"

"Not once in ten years! You went to see Aggie-Ann, and Genevieve, even this man's wife's funeral, but never Meg!"

"Madame Giry," cried Christine. "What are you saying?"

The woman looked out the door, clasping her hands. "She likely has the boy! Why, I don't know, but she can't be thinking straight…"

"We've got to find them, and fast!" Mr. Y hurried to the closet and fished out some flashlights. "Take these, everyone, and hurry! Trio, you search the perimeter. The rest of us will go through the streets!"

)

(

)

There's not a single worse time to get lost in Coney Island than closing day at nightfall. The place is mobbed, loud, and everyone ends up looking the same in the smoke and lights. It was into this impossible mix that myself, Gregory, and Daddy went running, flashlights in hand, already despairing of ever finding poor little Gustave. It was a gargantuan task.

"This is madness," groaned Daddy. "There's got to be at least ten thousand people in this park! How are ever supposed to find them?"

Gregory scanned the crowd, equally grim. "I think the best approach is this: if you were stealing a kid, where would you take him? Obviously not anywhere easy to find."

Together we ran through the crowd, going into the abandoned attractions and shining lights into alleys. We checked the stands. We called into tents. We ran ourselves ragged, feeling more useless as time wore on, as if to mock our miserable little search. Poor Gustave! My poetry buddy! Mr. Y's son! We just had to find him!

After a search in a restaurant alley yielded nothing but a pile of garbage, my resolve began to disintegrate.

"We'll never find him," I blubbered, all overemotional. "Never…"

Daddy rubbed my back, but he didn't look confident either. "We can't give up, Baby. Not yet. Come on, we haven't gone near the oceanfront."

"The oceanfront." Gregory got on his toes and tried to make it out. "You're right; we haven't. Boy, out of all the places to take a kid, I hope it wasn't there!"

)

(

)

We stumbled down the sand-covered steps of the boardwalk, leaving the noise of the park behind. Seagulls screamed overhead. Ahead, the long, dark arms of the pier stretched out into the retreating Atlantic as though trying to call it back. As we hit the sand, there was something indescribable about the air. I have never forgotten it. It was as though we were running through thin ice.

Something about the atmosphere made me whisper. "The bathing machines are very secluded. We should check there!"

But just ahead, we made out the figures of Mr. Y, Christine, and Madame Giry. Not far from them was Meg, and (thank heaven!) little Gustave. They were down by the pier. We headed their way, passing the bathing machines and going under the pier, around the thick beams that supported it. Once close, we got behind one of them and surveyed the situation.

The first thing I noticed was Meg's red Christmas scarf, the very one she'd received from Mr. Y, and then the figure of Meg herself came into focus. There she stood, hair loose and straggled over her shoulders, eyes wild, lips trembling, and in her grip was pale little Gustave. In her other outstretched arm was Mr. Y's gun. Her finger was clenched over the trigger.

Daddy pulled me behind him and backed farther behind the pier leg.

"Stay back, Ariel," he whispered slowly.

Mr. Y, Christine, and Madame Giry were standing some distance away, clearly being held at bay. Holding up a non-threatening hand, Mr. Y took a step forward, but Meg would have none of it. She jerked the gun and screamed something. Christine reached uselessly towards Gustave, who began to cry. I trembled. The poor kid!

"Jesus Christ, Alf," whispered Gregory desperately. "What the hell is she going to do?"

Daddy eyes never left the scene. "If she wanted the boy dead, she'd have shot him by now. She wants something."

Once more, Mr. Y endeavored to approach Meg, and still she would not relent, not even when her mother approached her, arms outstretched. This was starting to look bad.

"If I had a gun…" Gregory moaned.

"No!" Daddy's whisper was as hard as steel. "Not at this range, with the boy that close. Mr. Y's handling it right. Just talk her out of it, concentrate on getting that weapon away from her…"

Suddenly Meg released Gustave, who went running into his mother's arms, but she wasn't through with the gun yet. It seemed she had a story to tell, and she was bent on making sure everyone listened carefully.

Mr. Y stepped forward. This time he did not back down when Meg shook the gun. There he stood, the barrel of that awful weapon inches from his chest, and Meg's hand was trembling, unstable, ready to pull the trigger and fire at any moment…

"Oh!" My heart pounded with horror. "Oh, she'll hurt Mr. Y, Daddy!"

He grabbed me. "Be quiet, Ariel!" he hissed.

But all I saw was Mr. Y, inches away from disaster, and without thinking I lurched forward, out from behind the pier leg, into plain sight. "Mr. Y…!"

Daddy's hand clamped over my mouth; in one swift motion I was hidden again, immobilized in his arm. His voice was terrible. "Open your mouth again and I'll slap you."

I didn't dare speak, but my tears dripped onto his hand before he finally removed it. Meg was crying too. She lowered the gun a bit, and Mr. Y walked cautiously over, arms outstretched as though he were toying with the idea of touching her.

"That's right," whispered Gregory. "He's doing it. Keep talking, Mr. Y."

He did. Now he was doing most of the talking, and Meg, as though ashamed, bowed her head and listened, letting the gun go limp at her side. Mr. Y gestured towards Christine and gave a good-natured sort of shrug.

Meg lifted her head, her anger suddenly renewed.

Her words were as clear as a bell. "Christine!" she cried furiously, swinging the arm with the gun. "Always Chris—"

BANG!

A flash of light, a shriek, and the gunshot shattered the air. I screamed. Daddy quickly shoved me onto the sand and covered me with his body. Gregory threw himself down as well, swearing and sputtering.

"No!" cried Daddy.

I could see the bottom of Christine's skirt, saw her knees give way, and she crumpled to the ground, half supported by Madame Giry, blood spreading across her blouse…

Meg dropped the gun and backed away, shaking her head wildly. "No, no! Christine!" she wailed. "I didn't mean to! _Christine!"_

"Mama!" Gustave's cry rang out. "Mama!"

"Giry!" screamed Mr. Y, pulling Christine into his lap and hastily pressing the folds of his jacket against her chest, the color draining rapidly from his face. "Get help! Go! Now!"

Meg looked as though she would resist, but Madame Giry grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away, and off they went, stumbling across the sand, as Mr. Y and Gustave tried vainly to help Christine. She was failing rapidly; her eyes were dim, her breaths were labored, and the horrible pallor of death was beginning to freeze her lips, which suddenly bubbled with even more blood.

Terror robbed the Master of everything that made him recognizable. Suddenly I was not seeing Mr. Y, the musical genius and entrepreneurial giant, but Erik, a freak like me, no more dangerous than any of the rest of us, a man whose reason to carry on was bleeding to death on his jacket.

"Mama!" Gustave continued to cry, feebly shaking her arm. "Ne meurs pas!"

Daddy and Gregory groaned as one. A sob shook in my throat. I knew in my heart that that it was all over. Help just couldn't be summoned in time, and even if it could it wouldn't help in the slightest. Unable to help, unable to speak, unable to do anything, we just knelt there in the sand like three wooden Indians, watching the most appalling thing we'd ever seen.

Christine reached out to touch Gustave's wet little cheeks, and despite a brief protest from Mr. Y, she pointed to him and weakly confessed, "Votre vrei papa."

His real father.

She tried to take his hands, but the poor child leapt to his feet, looking from his dying mother to his true father in mingled horror and grief. He would not hear any more, no, not even when she tried to reach for him again. He turned on heel and ran crying from them, coming towards the pier.

"Gustave!" I cried, and when he noticed me he ran over and fell sobbing into my arms, pressing his face into my shoulder. Daddy put his arms around both of us. Gregory just sat, frozen, as though unseeing. Just over Gustave's head, I could still see Christine dying, and as I looked up, Mr. Y and I briefly met eyes.

"Je veux mon papa!" Gustave cried into my collar, as though I could make it come true. "Papa! Papa!"

When Mama died, at least I had Daddy. This child had nothing but betrayal, no familiar home to return to, nothing to soothe the pain.

"I…want my papa to come back." Gustave wept on. "He should know…Mama's hurt…"

At that moment, I saw Christine reach for Mr. Y, weakly extending her arms. He let go of the blood-soaked jacket. He seemed to realize at last that his efforts were fruitless, and for the first time in the whole ten years I'd known him, his mouth trembled. A single tear that held all the sadness of the world slid down his good cheek.

He wrapped his arms around Christine and kissed her one last time, lingering until her grip loosened, lingering even after they'd dropped limply to the sand, lingering until it was useless to do so anymore, when all that was left of Christine Daae was a body frozen in death, the greatest voice of our time silenced. He put his head down on her chest and wept, a sight that destroyed me. His cries were the cries of a broken animal that had only briefly known a world beyond the bars of a cage. The illusion disintegrated, entirely and forever. Mr. Y was a man. He was not even truly Mr. Y.

He was just Erik, alone.

"She's dead," Daddy mumbled hoarsely.

Gustave slowly turned to look upon the terrible scene, and when he did the innocence just vanished, died, like a flame extinguished, reduced to a mere whisper of smoke.

"Mama," he whimpered, and he bowed his little head.

I touched his shoulder, and just then, in that moment, Mama's ring suddenly seemed alive, warm, as though it wanted to grab my attention. The revelation sprung into my heart. It was as clear as any mortal voice. With one bittersweet rush, I felt the presence of Mama, comforting and gently telling me what I must do. I closed my eyes and accepted it.

"Gustave," I said.

He turned and looked at me through swollen eyes.

My heart only trembled for a moment, and then I slipped Mama's ring off my finger. He looked at it, and then at me.

"She's gone, but not forever," I told him. "She'll always be with you in spirit to guide you along, until you finally get to be with her again. She'll watch over you and your papa."

"But…" Gustave looked back at where Mr. Y sat, devastated, weeping on Christine. "But how can he be my…?"

"It's hard to take all at once, but Mr. Y loves your mama. I've known him for ten years, ever since I was your age. He's loved her and missed her all that time. This place, Phantasma, everything he ever did, it was all because he loved her so much." I took his hands. "And he loves you too, even if he shows it strangely. Love's not always beautiful."

A glimmer of light shone in Gustave's eyes. "That's what Mama said," he murmured. "Love is something you know in your heart, not your eyes…"

"That's true."

His eyelids drooped, a tempest of emotions and principles visibly fighting it out inside him, numbed by the magnitude of this tragedy.

"It's not wrong to feel bad about being lied to all these years, you know," I continued, sensing his guilt, "And it's going to be very sad for a long time. My mama's been gone for two years, and sometimes I'm still sad about it all over again. But Mr. Y will be feeling just as bad, right alongside you. He needs you."

"But I'm just…little."

"Mr. Y was once little too." I lifted my eyes to see him, where he was still slumped over Christine, and my throat swelled. "I don't think he's ever felt anything but little, ever since he was born."

At this, Gustave turned and looked at his father, sympathy softening his childish features, although there was still a shiver of fear that seemed to be holding him back.

I knew what I had to do. "I've always had this ring to remind me of my Mama's love," I said, looking at it, letting its every detail be engraved into my memory. "It always helped me remember that if we just keep the faith and keep going, we'll all be fine someday." I pressed it into his hand. "I hope it will help you remember, from now on."

His shocked eyes darted from the ring to me. For a minute he couldn't speak. "But…but Miss Raven," he eventually protested, "This is yours…"

"And now it's yours. Don't worry, dear. I'll be all right without it, I promise. It served its purpose, see? It was there for me when I needed it, all throughout these years, when I had trouble pulling through, but now it's behind me." The truth of my own words brought a lump to my throat. "I'm okay now."

Gustave put the ring on his finger, as awed by it as I had been the very first time I'd seen it, but he still looked at me once more. "You're sure?"

I nodded, too overcome to speak anymore.

The child rose to his feet, and after a moment of contemplation, he slowly headed toward where Mr. Y sat with Christine's body, which was now covered by his jacket.

Daddy pulled me into his arms. When he hugged me, I could feel the tremble in his old scratchy throat.

"Baby," he quavered. "Are you really…?"

All I could do was nod, watching the scene before me through my tears.

It took some time for Mr. Y to become aware of Gustave at his side, but when he did he turned away in despair, shrinking as though he might strike him, but the child didn't give in. Gently, he reached for the mask. Again, Mr. Y resisted, shaking his head, but Gustave still would not let him go. A moment of silence and inaction, and then, all at once, Mr. Y turned around and bowed his head, meek, hurt, ready to take whatever came.

In one fluid tug, Gustave pulled off both the mask and the wig, exposing the gruesome deformity and the sallow scalp of straggling hair. He looked upon it, not with a scream, not with a tremble, but with compassion. Still, Mr. Y did not move. Perhaps he didn't dare to believe it.

"Don't worry, Papa," said Gustave softly.

At this, Mr. Y's eyes lifted in disbelief, but before he could even respond, Gustave tossed his arms around him. He froze. The concept of a hug was obviously stunning to him, but slowly, gently, he enfolded his son in his arms, and then he embraced him tightly. My sad heart had cause to sing. Mr. Y had found love at long last.

)

(

)

I have no desire to describe the hour or so that followed in detail, so the description will be brief. Out we came from under the pier. Until the police arrived, we comforted Mr. Y and Gustave, a task far easier said than done; the former was utterly inconsolable, and stalwartly refused to let go of his son. He was so numb that he did not seem to even hear us. We used our jackets to cover poor Christine.

At length, we learned the horrible truth behind Meg's actions, as well as the source of Phantasma's funding: she had been sleeping with the investors, buying time for bills and permits with her own body, and the whole concept of our City of Wonders became a horror to me. It had been made possible by a girl surrendering control over her own sexuality. She had done it only for him, all those years, and he had never known. It was remarkable that I even had a heart left; it had been broken so many times.

After Christine's body was taken away, we followed Mr. Y and Gustave to the Ayrie, offering our help, but we could go no further than the door.

Gustave disappeared inside, leaving us with the still unmasked Mr. Y. Which side of his face looked worse was hard to distinguish. One side was disfigured, the other was as dead as any corpse.

"Is there anything we can do for you, sir?" Daddy asked solemnly.

The man shook his head, utterly defeated, a shadow of the genius who had conceived Phantasma. "No," came his lifeless reply.

It felt like a moment to pat his back, or say goodnight, but we all just stood there in silence, looking at each other, hearts heavy.

He leaned against the doorframe, a strange sleepiness seeming to seize him. "Look at you three," he said, as if to himself. "Ten years pass, and you've come so far. I daresay…you don't need me."

We didn't know what to say.

"You could…kill me right now, if you wanted…" A chilling note of desperation entered his voice. "And take this all from me…take it away…"

Daddy grabbed his shoulders. "You can't entertain thoughts like that, sir," he growled sympathetically. "You've got to keep it together for Gustave. Do you understand?"

Mr. Y didn't seem to feel Daddy's hands on him. He gave a slow sort of nod.

"You must promise me that you won't do anything drastic, sir. Remember the boy. He needs you. Do you promise?"

It took a while, but Mr. Y's head slowly bobbed up and down.

"The first night is always the worst." Daddy's face and voice softened with pity. "But it does get better with time. It does. Tonight, you must go straight to bed and take it quietly."

It was the first time Daddy ever ordered Mr. Y to do anything, and it was also the first time Mr. Y obeyed. In he went like a blank-faced automaton, off to do just what he was told.

)

(

)

Our fellow freaks, interrupted from their party by the news, practically mobbed us the moment we emerged from the Ayrie, wringing hands and demanding details, but Daddy only gave them the bare bones.

"A woman's been killed," he snapped bluntly. "It was awful. What more do you people want? A dissertation? I've had all I can take tonight. Leave me alone."

)

(

)

All three of us went back to Fleck Manor, where Daddy hastened to make tea for us. Home at last, sitting among the dusty ancestors, all the realities came crashing back, invading my numb mind with flaring headlines_. Christine is dead. Gustave is Mr. Y's son. You're likely having a baby. Gregory is leaving tonight._

Speaking of Gregory, he hadn't said anything, from the time Christine was shot to this moment. Looking over at him, I realized with a pang that he had not even changed his expression all that much. He looked empty, frozen, but something was brewing behind those eyes, something I couldn't quite make out.

I touched his hand. A small gesture indeed, but its effect was surprisingly disproportionate; a crack seemed to fracture his face of stone, and when he placed his hand on top of mine he softened and shed a tear.

Daddy brought over the tea tray and slapped him on the back, shaking his head in stoic compassion. "Of all the times for something like this to happen, it happens now," he growled gently. "Just before you leave. I'm real sorry, just real sorry. Here, take some tea; you'll feel better soon."

"I'm not leaving."

My heart jumped. Daddy frowned. "Not leaving? But you said…"

Gregory closed his eyes and tightened his grip on my hand, letting another tear fall. "Well, I changed… my mind," he said with great difficulty. "I'm staying."

An overjoyed sob choked in my throat. We met eyes lovingly for a moment, and then the resolute agreement was mutually made.

"Al," he continued, "I have not been honest with you."

"Haven't been honest?"

I braced myself for whatever the outcome of the confession would be.

"Sometimes it takes something like this to wake a man up," Gregory said, looking past us and out the window, the moonlight illuminating the misery in his eyes. "It takes something like danger, death, a tragedy like this. It takes this whole Mr. Y and Christine disaster to make you see."

Daddy sat beside him, his tattoos slack with confusion, but he was concerned nevertheless. "I don't understand."

"I have seen what I do not want to be, what I never want to cause. Mr. Y made a child and ran for it, and look at him now. Has he really lived these past ten years? Has he ever had pride in anything he has ever done? If he could go back in time, wouldn't he have stayed?" He swallowed deeply. "I do not want to turn around in ten years, only to find that I have become Mr. Y. This can't go on any longer."

At this point, Daddy had clearly put the pieces together; you could see the shock flashing in his eyes, but he was struggling greatly not to jump straight to conclusions.

Gregory felt it and cut to the chase. "Alf, it wasn't any old slob of the street that took Ariel to bed. It was me."

There was dead silence as his words sunk in. Daddy clenched his fists as he regarded Gregory with an intense blend of outrage and grief, as though his first instinct to destroy the man was just barely being restrained by his many years of friendship.

When he at last was able to speak again, his voice was as dark as the lowest notes on an organ. "And you were going to leave, and I would never have known."

Gregory bowed his head.

"Daddy," I pleaded. "Please, don't be upset with him…"

He started rising. "I have every right in this world to be-"

"It was my choice, every bit as much as his." Restraining his hands, I looked into his face and insisted, "I'm capable of making my own decisions, Daddy, and I'm half to blame!"

"I want to do right by her, Alf, I do!" Gregory told him. "You've got every right to be mad, just as you've said, but please let me take responsibility for this."

Daddy released my hands and stormed off a distance. "Let you?" he yelled. "It's no longer a matter of letting you! I have no choice! It's either I send you flying and be forced to lie to everyone, or I have Ariel get married to someone _I used to trust. _It's a shame either way!"

The bite of those last words was like a whip. Gregory flinched, blinked miserably, and sat down, thoroughly silenced. Even Daddy seemed to feel that his words were too harsh, but he did not admit it. Rather, he tightened his jaw and stalked off into the bedroom, communicating his displeasure with a bang of the door.

Never before had an agreement to a marriage produced so little joy.

"So," Gregory quavered, looking at the floor, his Italian accent thickening. "I take it that 'e is allowing me, then, even if he no trust me anymore."

I hustled over to him, taking him in my arms. "He's angry, dear. That's all. In a little while, surely he'll be better."

"I 'ope so."

"And, dear, I'm just…" I choked up; I couldn't help it. "I'm just so glad that we're going to be married."

His ragged breath whispered across my shoulder. "I am too, _mia moglie poco._ I so glad. For de past two days, I no sleep, I am feeling so bad about it all…"

"Hush. It's all right now, dear."

But telling Gregory to hush is like telling a creek to stop flowing. It's a futile endeavor.

"And I so sad," he moaned on. "Because I love you, an' I can no imagine never seeing you again-"

My other choices exhausted, I kissed him, which hushed him up at once, and for a good while we remained on each other's lips and got tears all over each other. We would not be like Mr. Y and Christine. We were going to stay together and face whatever came as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi. It would all be okay somehow.

"I love you, Gregory dear."

Just then, Daddy made a re-appearance. His face was still tight with unhappiness, but there was regret in his grumble.

"Er, De Rossi? Come in here. I want to speak with you."

In he went, twisting his jacket like the most shamed of all men, and when the door closed again I put my face on the table and prayed. As I did, I felt the eyes of all the framed ancestors looking upon me. The feeling surrounded me like warm air, like electricity, and I felt it beating in my heart, as naturally as lifeblood. They were not condemning; they were coming to strengthen me, and after some time I became aware of Mama's presence, just as I had earlier. I sat in silence, letting her come near me again, and without speaking I asked for her help. For some time I remained in that state, until Daddy's voice caught my attention.

I didn't catch the words. Curious, I snuck to the door to listen.

"…love her so much, Alf. All these years. She's safe with me, I promise."

"I will hold you to that promise, you know," Daddy growled somberly. "It's a lifetime commitment, marriage is."

"You can hold me to it. What I want most of all is your trust back, if you can see your way to it again."

Daddy was silent.

"I'm trustworthy, I promise," Gregory implored. "I can…prove it to you."

There was silence from Daddy again, but it wasn't a skeptical silence. What it was, I don't know.

"You want to prove it?" he finally replied, softly. "Fine. But you will agree to my conditions."

"Yes, yes, of course. Tell them to me."

"I have one condition, actually. But it is very difficult. In fact, it is nearly impossible."

Gregory accepted it with an audible note of anxiety. "Okay. What is it?"

"De Rossi," Daddy's voice was unyielding as he unfolded the condition. "I will require you to love Ariel every bit as much as I do." And then his façade melted into a sentimental snuffle. "Since that can never be, you must promise to try."

"I will," promised Gregory, the relief and joy singing in his voice. "You can count on me, Dad."

Then I heard the mattress squeak, followed by the sound of hearty backslaps, which is apparently what men do in lieu of actually hugging.

"Welcome to the Fleck family, De Rossi," choked Daddy.

"HOORAY!" I cheered through the door.

The slaps stopped abruptly, and when they did I felt at liberty to burst in and run into their arms.

"Air…ee…ull…" gagged Daddy in my grip.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm so happy," I crowed. "And it means so much to me that you'll be happy too. Oh Daddy! Oh, Gregory dear!"

"Ariel!" cried my soon-to-be-husband.

"My children," said Daddy, smiling.

"We'll tell everyone tomorrow." Gregory's smile shoved his cheeks halfway into his eyes. "Ah, to tell everyone in Coney and Brooklyn that I am going to marry Miss Fleck!"

"Mrs. De Rossi!" I corrected, kissing his cheek.

"You mean _Signora_ De Rossi; no more _Signorina_ for you." He took my hand. "And I will be sure to get you a beautiful ring. You deserve the best one, to replace the one you were so nice to give away."

A bittersweet feeling mingled with our bliss, just enough to give us a moment of thoughtful quiet together, there in that bedroom.

"I think the boy will find it a comfort in the days to come," Daddy said, and his eyes met mine. "And perhaps he will pass it on again, when someone else needs it, after he is okay too, just like you. And me."

"You?" That last declaration touched me. "You're okay now too, Daddy?"

There was a peace in his decorated old face that said it all, but he still nodded, as though bidding the grief of the past farewell. "I am."

Out of all the things that had happened that day, perhaps that was what moved me the most, and instead of weeping as we had done before, Mr. Y's Trio huddled together, silent, basking in our renewed love and companionship. We were more than a Trio now. We were a family.

"I'd better get moving," Daddy said, grinning, after a bit, looking towards the bureau, where he had placed the congratulatory cards he had received from Luna Park. "After all, I've got thank-you cards to write."

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

And THAT is how I rationalized Gustave's quick acceptance of the Phantom. See? Miss Fleck was offstage, giving him a "Look With Your Heart" spiel that she didn't even get credit for. People these days.

Still more sorrow to come, but when we get to the delightful happy-wappy ending with its twist, it'll all have been worth it. I promise.


	24. Farewell To Phantasma

NOTE: Some parts of this are in _italics,_ which indicate parts of the story that Gangle learned from second-hand sources.

Chapter Twenty Four

Farewell To Phantasma

Miss Fleck's memories of Christine Daae's death had made Mr. Whittington thoughtful, almost depressed, and Miss Fleck herself could sense it as the two of them strolled past the boardwalk where she had formerly been living. She watched him as he regarded the eyeless posters, his eyes dark.

"Everything all right, Jay?" she ventured cautiously.

He nodded, but said nothing. It was very nearly as unsatisfying an answer as none at all, and with the gentlest of pats, Miss Fleck said, "My aura of gloom is beginning to rub off on you, I can tell."

At this, Mr. Whittington stopped, seemingly snapped out of a daydream, and he smiled slightly. "Forgive me. I was just remembering what you told me about your ring, how you gave it to the little boy." He looked out over the surf. "Out of everything in the story so far, that bit resonated in me quite deeply."

"Don't feel bad for me," insisted Miss Fleck, "If that's what you mean. I was glad to give it to him."

Mr. Whittington turned back to her. "It was a tremendous thing to do, Ariel. You're a sweet old bird."

Her cheeks pinked with embarrassment. "Perhaps," she said, deflecting the praise. "At any rate, I'm glad I did. If I had kept it, I would have had to sell it for peanuts at some consignment shop. I would never have forgiven myself."

After they'd spent some time trekking around the boardwalk, they headed back into the city, in the direction of the prison. Mr. Whittington was off to interview Mr. De Rossi for what was likely going to be the final time before his release.

"There's not much story left, Jay," said. Ariel. "Gregory will finish it up, most likely, and then all that's left to tell is how I've scraped by for the past fifteen years, what I've been doing…the baby."

Mr. Whittington jolted in surprise at the last two words, but he did not press Miss Fleck further. Something in the way she spoke of 'the baby' strongly implied that it was not a happy story by any means.

Heading in, he took out his notebook and prepared to get the last bits of the story.

_**(Gangle picks up the story.)**_

Breakfast after a night like the one before was a gloomy affair. It was windy, gray, and the first September chill was setting in. Faces were slack and sad as clumpy curds of egg and oatmeal were slopped onto plates. But we, the Trio, at least had some happy news.

"Excuse me, everyone!" Alf tapped his glass, and everybody turned their faces towards us. "Thank you. Well, in light of yesterday's sad events, I'm pleased to make a happy announcement, a very happy one!"

Ariel and me rose to our feet before the assembly, and the proud Daddy tossed his arms around the two of us, beaming like a tattooed light bulb.

"We're having a wedding!" he announced with relish. "Ariel and Mr. De Rossi are going to be married."

The whole dining tent inhaled a collective gasp of surprise, and then came an enthusiastic burst of applause and cries from our fellow freaks. The ladies leapt from their seats and clustered, shrieking, around Ariel, and the men whacked Alf and me across the shoulders in congratulations.

"What a blessin'," Aggie-Ann gushed, sparkles in both pairs of eyes. "A real blessin'."

Della clapped all three hands. "I had a feeling! Didn't I have a feeling, Tom?"

"Oh, Alfred dear, how wonderful!" wept Mrs. Beardsley at once. "And how thrilling for you, Ariel! My darling!"

Mr. Geddes stood up on a bench to shake my hand, although he still had to get on his toes. "Congratulations, De Rossi, and to you too, Alf. Another wedding! What fundraiser will we use this time, eh? Ha!"

That was meant to be a joke, but it seemed that the man had struck upon Alf's next point.

"Ah, actually, we will need everyone's help," Alf confessed with a sheepish sort of blush. "You all know that Mr. Y is truly in no condition to spare any money or put a wedding together, what with these recent events, but I know he'd try to do something. He's a generous man. I'd like to beat him to it, if you will, get these two married as soon as possible."

"We really don't need or want a huge wedding," Ariel added. "We're perfectly content to be married quietly among all of you."

I decided to chip in. "Indeed. We don't need eight million roses and a marching band. Frankly, the lady and I are just itching to be man and wife. She's enough for me!"

That's the excuse we came up with, in lieu of having to confess a shotgun "the-lady's-expecting" wedding.

"When are you thinking of having the wedding?" Mrs. Beardsley wanted to know.

Alf's reply was a bit uncomfortable. "Ah…next Saturday, if we can, which gives us…a week, exactly."

)

(

)

A month was considered short notice for a wedding, but a week? We got some suspicious looks, although nobody was gutsy enough to accuse us of pre-marital shenanigans, and preparations started immediately, at that very breakfast table. The ladies planned a big wedding dinner. The men made calculations as to cost and pondered hiring a wedding photographer.

Over at Fleck Manor and De Rossi Hall, we made practical plans for after the wedding. After all, once she became my wife, Ariel would not live with Alf anymore. She would move in with me. To save some time, they began packing her possessions in bags and walking them over. In a way, we were erasing her presence from Fleck Manor and installing her in mine. Alf seemed to feel this keenly; he was wistful and quiet as he went back and forth between the two homes, and after the last box was placed on my crowded table, he stopped and contemplated it, as though he were standing before a memorial.

"That's everything," he said.

I had a perfectly good suit for the wedding, and Ariel, in a stroke of something like irony, decided to wear the white understudy dress that Mr. Y had made for her, seeing as it was the only dress that could be produced at such a short notice. She would get fresh flowers the day of the ceremony, and for her veil she would wear her mother's exquisitely handcrafted bridal lace.

She tried it all on in Fleck Manor for my tattooed father-in-law and I, holding a small flower bunch from the table like a pretend bouquet. I tell you, Ariel could have been a princess. The dress was perfect with the vintage lace, and the whiteness contrasted so beautifully with the blackness of her hair and her rosebud lips. What a sight! Alf and I must've looked pretty mystified, because she blushed and laughed.

"Shall I do?" she asked, turning in a complete circle for our consideration.

Alf cleared his throat gruffly. "You will, Baby Fleck."

I gave her "five stars", my gritty gangster heart overflowing with rapture at the thought that in a week, this wonderful girl was going to be my wife. I couldn't wait.

)

(

)

By noon, a lot had been accomplished wedding-wise; the clothes for the wedding party were squared away, the preparations for the food were decided upon, and the men devised entertainment. All we really needed was a marriage license and a reverend of some sort to hitch us.

There was also, of course, the task of informing Mr. Y of the whole thing, provided he was in a state to receive us, and the other task of telling my brother and Maria that I could no longer go with them. To be perfectly honest, I was surprised that I hadn't been telephoned upon my failure to show up at their place. Well, one thing at a time.

"I know it seems a bit distasteful to tell Mr. Y of the wedding, in light of last night," I told Alf, "But it seems that it's something he ought to know about right away. Shall I take Ariel up to the Ayrie?"

"Seems reasonable to me," he replied, nodding, and then he added, "While you're up there, tell me how he seems to be doing. The child too."

The mention of Gustave made Ariel lower her eyes sadly. "It almost feels wrong, having all this wedding excitement while they're so devastated, Daddy."

"I see what you mean." Alf averted his eyes and shrugged. "But there's nothing we can do about it but press on. You'd better tell him as soon as possible. I'll stay here and make sure you didn't leave anything behind."

"Okay."

Alf suddenly touched the corners of his mouth and smiled brightly. "We'll pull through with happy smiles one way or the other," he chuckled. "I'll see the two of you later."

)

(

)

We chatted as we strolled through the empty City of Wonders, my little bride and I, and the topic eventually turned to our potential baby. It was certainly a discussion that cast a contemplative feeling over us; Ariel patted her belly as she talked.

"You know, Gregory," she said, her emerald eyes thoughtful, "It was a horror before, but now I think that having a little one would be just great!"

The notion of it excited me too; this Italian can tell no lies. I popped up behind her and patted her belly too, and as I did I imagined it big and round with baby. Ariel would be one beautiful mama.

"Ah, what if it should be a boy?" I asked. "What would we call him?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. I've only ever pondered girls' names myself. What was your father's name?"

"Vittorio."

She raised her eyebrows. "Vittorio De Rossi. Hmm. That's a nice name, but I don't know if I'd want to name the baby that."

"Well, we have plenty of time. How about girls? What if we have a girl?"

She'd clearly thought that idea over quite a bit; smiling, she leaned back onto me and unloaded a whole litany of names.

"Vivienne, I think, that is my favorite, but there's always Lucy, Evelyn, Mabel, Betty, and Edith, too. I can't pick. I could think of more…"

"Ah, never mind, I like Vivienne," I chipped in, struck by the beauty of the name. "That is nice, sounds good on the tongue. Perhaps her middle name could be Regina, my mother's name. That means 'queen' in Italian, see?"

"Vivienne Regina De Rossi," Ariel said elegantly as she traced it in the air with her finger. "I love that. Oh, Gregory, now we simply _must _have a girl!"

"Ah, and now you will surely have a boy!"

The sight of the Ayrie looming into view stifled our carefree laughter. Nothing about the place had changed, but the general feeling of grandeur and pride had somehow died into solemnity, like a castle scarred by past battles and overgrown with moss, a shadow of its former days. It had rained early in the morning; just underneath the eye-shaped windows' ledge, the rainwater had gathered and spilled over, and the damp streaks that resulted gave one the impression that the Ayrie was weeping, right along with Mr. Y and Gustave.

All discussions of babies and genders subsided into silence as we opened the base door and headed into the darkness of the stairwell.

"Gregory," Ariel said suddenly, turning around. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Just now. There was this clanking sound, just outside." She stuck her head back out, frowning. "Like something shutting."

I didn't hear anything like that and said so, and after a last moment of scanning the outside, we headed up the stairs, our next concern being how we were going to word our announcement.

_Sorry about last night, Master, but you're invited to our wedding!_

_How are you feeling, sir? We have some news that may cheer you up!_

No matter how I tried to put it, it just came off as insensitive, and at last I resolved to deliver it gently and briefly, taking care not to take overly long.

"Excuse me, sir!" I called, knocking on the Ayrie door. "Miss Fleck and I only wish to see how you are, and to tell you something."

No reply.

"Sir? Can you hear us?"

Still nothing. When I pressed my ear to the door, there was still silence within, with not even the slightest rustle.

"Is the door open, Gregory?" Ariel asked.

It was. When I turned the knob, it gave all the way, and the door swung open.

"Mr. Y? Sir? Are you…"

Our voices trailed off into dumbfounded silence, for it was then that we saw the sight.

The whole interior of the Ayrie was destroyed. Automatons lay broken in pieces, music was flung all over the floor, mechanisms were bent out of shape, mirrors were smashed, ink was splattered across paintings, and on top of a large pile of rubble and paper lay what looked horribly like a body, covered by a white sheet.

The Master had not answered us…

Ariel was speechless as she looked at me, and then at that body. Slowly, with dread clutching at my stomach, I made my way across the debris-littered floor, knowing that I must find out what-or who-it truly was. Ariel did not follow. She went in a roundabout fashion to the side, her hand on her mouth.

"Oh," she moaned. "Oh, Gregory, don't…"

Taking a deep breath, I clenched my jaw and pulled the sheet away.

It was Christine, the automaton. Her eyes had been closed, and her limbs were arranged as though this whole destruction had been some perverse Viking funeral, and this was the funeral pyre on which she would be burned. I recovered her and shuddered.

"Mr. Y had to have done this," I said.

"But why?" Ariel knelt and uselessly picked up some papers, deeply shaken. "What good would it do, destroying the Ayrie? How will that bring Christine back?"

Somehow, I knew something was about to go terribly wrong, something we could not reverse. I could feel it, like a chill, rushing through my veins, as I looked at Christine on that pile of trash, looked at the irreparable damage done to the Ayrie, as though Mr. Y had no plans to return to it ever again…

"He's gone, Ariel. He and Gustave."

She shook her head, looking almost offended. "They can't be! How can they run Phantasma and be gone?"

"That's the thing," I replied. "They're not going to. Christine is gone. The experiment has failed. He is finished with this place."

"Gregory!"

"You know it's true. She was the reason he built this place, the reason he stayed all these years, and now he has no reason anymore."

"No reason? We're a reason! We're his friends! He cares about us!" Ariel's eyes overflowed as she insisted, voice cracking, "He cares about us!"

"Ariel…"

"And he must still be here! He must!" Hurrying into the backrooms, she dashed about, screaming wildly, "Mr. Y? Mr. Y! Come out from where you are this minute! You're frightening us! _This…minute!"_

I followed after her into the room where Mr. Y slept, where she was violently throwing open closets and doors, punctuating each slam with a scream, utterly beside herself with anguish.

"_You…can't be gone!"_ she went on, tears flowing from infuriated eyes. _"When I was…a little girl…you promised…!" _

"Ariel, stop it!" I cried.

All the potential hiding places exhausted, she irrationally grabbed a comb and sent it flying against the bureau with a bang. _"We…cared… about you! We…worked so… hard!_" She grabbed a stray decanter and flung it. _"And now…and now…" _

After the thrown decanter was nothing put a pile of shattered glass, she stopped, chest heaving, and cried stormily into her sleeve_. "And now you're gone!"_

I hugged her, hoping to calm her down. "Ariel," I told her gently, "All this distress is not good for the baby."

"But…he left us…" she cried. "He's… gone. He… never cared…"

"I know, I know."

"How will we tell the others?"

That was a good question. Looking around at Ariel's little explosion of destruction, which nonetheless paled in comparison to Mr. Y's, I wondered how the others were going to take this. Anger flared in my heart. Of all the ways to betray someone, abandonment was the worst.

"We will tell them the truth," I said, wiping her eyes. "And then we will move on, wherever fate would take us next. We'll do it together, you and I."

She snuggled closer and quieted down. "Yes."

I spent a few more moments hugging her, and in that time my eyes scanned the room. A framed picture was pushed aside. It was strange, almost like a door, and through the crack I could see a large switch that was pushed down. Interesting, yes, but I didn't think much of it.

"Let's go back to the others now. This place is depressing."

We went back into the destroyed main room, taking care not to trip over the debris. Ariel sighed when she surveyed the gorilla organ, bent hopelessly beyond repair.

"Ruined. Oh, Gregory, I just can't…"

_BA-BOOM._ The sudden rumble was like a muffled earthquake. The floor beneath our feet quickly vibrated and was still. We looked at each other in alarm and stayed frozen for a minute, listening for more. A lesser boom thundered again, and then stopped. A sick, noxious smell filled the air.

Oh!" cried Ariel, pointing towards the windows. "Oh, look!"

And to our horror, a billow of black smoke was rushing up past the windows, so thick that we could not see the sky! I ran over. Through it, I could just make out Phantasma. The gardens were up in flames, and the restaurant, and the volcano, all isolated fires being spread with the wind, grasping banners, zipping up poles, as though someone had deliberately set them aflame, orchestrated this huge fiery funeral…

"Mr. Y's burning this place down! We've got to get out of here now!" I yelled, and without even waiting for a reply, I grabbed Ariel by the wrist and dragged her behind me as I ran, throwing open the Ayrie door, tearing down the stairs, knowing that our lives depended on getting to one of the exits before it was too late.

"Daddy!" howled Ariel as we ran. "And the others, Gregory! Our homes and everything we have! _Oh my God, my God!"_

We hit the ground floor. "Surely they've seen! They're closer to the exits than we are!"

"My God, my God…"

I threw open the base door, and an astoundingly hot burst of smoke struck me in the face, propelled by the strong wind. The air was roaring, shimmering, exploding with the heat of the fire, which was spreading fast, charring the nearby grass.

"The East exit! This way! Hurry!" I practically had to roar to make myself heard as we ducked past the burning colonnades and onto the main stretch. Never in my life had I known I could run half as fast as I ran that day; Ariel stumbled and gasped raggedly as she half-flew behind me, trying to keep up.

Overhead, there were piercing screams as the birds from Ariel's Aviary fled through the smoke, crashing into each other and shrieking, soaring over us and out of Coney Island.

Ariel saw them and spun around, looking desperately behind her. "Oh! My birds! Oh, Gregory, some of them can't fly! None of the peacocks can! _No, no!"_

The thought of all the caged animals broke my heart. "There's nothing we can do," I cried. "We have to save ourselves!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, little ones!" sobbed Ariel. "So sorry…"

)

(

)

Alf stood alone in Fleck Manor, silently contemplating the home that would presently be completely his, that well-known melancholy surging in his old heart as he looked over every time-worn detail. Ariel was to be a wife. He had done his duty. After the wedding in a week, the last trace of his only child would vanish from their little ancestral home, and he would be free to live out the remainder of his days as a widower, the last surviving Fleck, the last link to the past that covered his walls in frames, and with his death would come the end of an era.

_He sat down. There would be grandchildren, yes, probably a great many; they would be a great consolation to him in his old age, playing with him, listening to his stories of the old days, fiddling with the old family artifacts until Ariel would scold them. She too, would grow older. He would see his little girl age into a red-cheeked matron, a merry wife, the head matriarch at last, and time would just keep moving on…_

_BOOM! A thunderous clap, much like thunder, jolted him out of his reverie. He looked to the window. When nothing else happened, he sat back again. No matter. Likely a construction blunder. _

_He was making tea, however, when yet another loud boom vibrated the floor. Agitated, he went to his door and looked out. Others had heard it too; a great many freaks and workers alike were gathered around the porches._

"_What in the dickens is going on over there?" crabbed Mr. Geddes. "Someone pick me up, I can't see!" _

_Damien squinted. "They doin' construction? There's a lot of dust and smoke in the air."_

"_Stinks t' hah heavens!" added Aggie as Ann scrunched her nose. _

"_I should think they'd warn us if they were going to make a racket like that!" said Mrs. Beardsley._

"_You don't think something's fallen down?" Genevieve ventured. "I declare that's the loudest construction work I've ever heard." _

_They spent only a minute longer in ignorance before a suffocating, smoky haze began blowing their way, and out of it came workers, faces streaked with sweat, waving their arms._

"_Fire! There's a fire!" they bellowed. "The whole Northeast side's on fire, and it's spreading fast!" _

_A collective cry of alarm sounded in the freakish assembly. _

"_Fire?" _

"_What? How? When did it…?" _

"_There's no time! Get the things most important to you and run!"_

_Off the workers ran, and everything dissolved into chaos. Damien swore and ran with Genevieve, Tom picked up little Mr. Geddes and called to Mrs. De Luzy to let him carry her, the ladies wept, the men shouted, and desperate cries of haste and anguish filled the air. _

_Alf looked towards the direction of the Ayrie, the coldest horror he'd ever known clutching his heart. _

"_Dear Lord! Ariel and De Rossi went to the Ayrie!" he screamed. "Did anyone see them? Did they come back?" _

"_If they went that way," panted Damien, dashing by with a suitcase, "They'd be with Mr. Y, wouldn't they? They would have seen the fire first!" _

_But all Alf could understand was the fire. "Ariel!" he called wildly, lurching towards it. "De Rossi! I've got to find them! ARIEL!" _

"_They've surely already taken the East Gate out, Alf!" _

"_Alf, come back! There's no way you can get through that fire!" _

"_But…but, Ariel! ARIEL!" _

_He was seized and roughly shaken. "You've got to get whatever you can from your place, and fast! De Rossi and Mr. Y aren't idiots, they're likely searching for you at the gates! C'mon, Alf, move yourself, hurry!" _

_Finally beaten back by the heat and smoke, Alf staggered off, coughing, and once back in Fleck Manor he stripped the sheets from the bed and threw it onto the floor. Going faster than he'd ever moved in his life, he tore the photographs off the wall and threw them into the sheet, breaking glass and denting frames in his haste, and after the walls were bare he ran his arm along the shelves, knocking his journal, knick-knacks, and sentimental objects onto the pile. _

_Mr. Tower stuck his head in the doorway. "The south complex just went up! There's no more time! Run!" _

_Alf grabbed the sheet, throwing it over his shoulder like a knapsack. At the door, he took one last, despairing look at the only home he'd ever known, and then he fled with the others, praying for the safety of Ariel and me. _

_)_

_(_

_)_

Flames had already devoured the performance tent as we ran by, and the dressing rooms collapsed, sending a fiery spray of ash spiraling into the air.

"We're almost there!" I cried. "The East Gate is just beyond the-"

"_Look out!"_ Ariel shrieked, pointing upwards.

A tower from the funhouse groaned with flames and came crashing down in front of us, sending even more flaming debris flying, and a piece of it struck me in the face and singed me. The pain was terrible; I yelled and jumped back, clawing at it.

"Oh, Gregory! Gregory!"

Cursing, I saw that our escape route was now blocked! I forgot the pain and swung about, searching for an alternate way, but there were flames everywhere, and the smoke was becoming so thick that I could barely speak. We'd have to run back where we came!

"It's cut off! This way, Ariel!"

But once the Ayrie came into view, I saw that there were no other routes; absolutely every way was filled with flames. All our familiar haunts were burned beyond recognition, beyond finding a direction, beyond hope, and behind us a collection of poles cracked. We ducked and ran, but one struck Ariel. I felt the shock jolt her and wrench her hand from mine.

"Oh!" she screamed. "HELP!"

The flames had leapt onto her skirt! I threw my jacket onto her and smothered them wildly as she shrieked. I felt her leg brace snap and break into pieces as I did, and when the burning at last subsided, it fell away, along with the scorched remains of her slip. I threw her over my shoulder and ran.

But now the fire was closing in, lapping against the base of the Ayrie. There was nowhere to go. We were in the eye of the fire, completely surrounded. There was nowhere to go but against the Ayrie, and then the fire would spread there and consume the two of us. My strength had not been enough. This was the end. Ariel and me were going to die together.

There was nothing to do now but back against the base of the Ayrie and wait for death to come. I stumbled back, petrified, driven into an un-escapable corner for the first and final time in my life.

Ariel felt it. She buried her sweat-streaked face into my shoulder. "I love you, Gregory," she whimpered.

"I love you too, A…"

My foot jolted against what felt like a lock. I looked down, and my heart leapt. Beneath my foot was the trapdoor to the tunnel, the fake grass thrown aside! The tunnel! I had forgotten! Now it was our only hope!

Wasting no time, I put Ariel down and wrenched the trapdoor open.

"Get down into the tunnel!" I yelled. "Hurry!"

As fast as humanly possible with her un-braced leg, Ariel gripped the bars and scurried down. Once she was just far enough, I climbed in as well and shut the door behind us, and the two of us headed blindly down into the darkness.

)

(

)

Not long after Alf and the others escaped through the front gate and onto the sidewalks of Brooklyn, the whole park was nothing but a massive inferno, belching columns and columns of smoke, exuding searing heat that drove everyone away, and it rapidly spread through Luna Park and all the rest of Coney, driven by the wind.

_The workers, and dumbfounded New Yorkers were distraught, but none were more devastated than the freaks of Phantasma, who howled and screamed over the destruction. They were losing more than their jobs; they were losing their homes, most of their possessions, and nearly everything they ever had in the way of dignity and normalcy. _

_Genevieve's usual big hair was frazzled and stuck to her neck as she clung to Damien and shrieked, "Everything! Everything! Gone!" _

"_Oh, what will Mr. Y do?" wept Mrs. Beardsley. _

"_Everything I ever worked for in forty years," croaked little Mr. Geddes. "Gone." _

_But Alf had no time for grief. After dropping his pile of saved possessions on the ground, he ran crazily through the crowd, going to every gate, screaming Ariel's name._

"_Please! Have you seen my daughter or my son-in-law? She's got black hair, a striped shirtwaist, and a navy blue skirt! No? I… you there! Have you seen my daughter? Her name is Ariel, and she…" _

_He grabbed policemen, fireman, vendors, anyone, consumed with finding Ariel and me. _

)

(

)

Back in the tunnel, the two of us had no choice but to run through darkness. We hadn't any idea where it led, but all I knew was that it was leading me away from that fire. Clutching Ariel's hand, I felt the stony dirt walls and staggered along. Above us, I could hear structures cracking and collapsing, and every time they did the ground shuddered, causing dirt and rocks to fall onto us.

Ariel could barely get along without her brace.

"Oh, Gregory," she moaned. "I can't…"

We had to stop for a brief bit, for she was absolutely exhausted with fear and exertion, and frankly, so was I.

"It's got to stop burning eventually," I reasoned, my own voice odd to me. "I think we're safe down here until then."

She trembled against me. "I thought we were going to die."

"So did I."

We embraced in that dark, hot chamber of earth, astonished by our own lives, our breaths, our heartbeats. We had lived, and we had to carry on if we sill wanted to survive. Sitting there, hearing the sounds of destruction and feeling the tunnel shake, I hoped it was strong enough to resist. Would it be safer to go back towards the entrance, or go forward?

I decided to head forward, but not long after we began, Ariel yelped.

"Oh! I've stepped on something, like a plate!"

She crouched and picked it up, and although she couldn't see it, she felt it, and her voice presently dropped in astonishment.

"Gregory, it's Mr. Y's mask."

I felt it too, making out the smooth porcelain curves, with the eyehole and the bend for the nose. It really was the mask! That meant that Mr. Y had been here. All at once, I understood the purpose of the tunnel, and why it had been hidden from us under a patch of fake grass.

"This is an escape tunnel," I said. "Mr. Y must have always had an escape plan ready in case he needed to flee. He would flip the switch in the Ayrie, ignite the park, and escape through this hidden tunnel. There's a way out of here, then!"

"All these years…" Ariel whispered sadly.

"And if it weren't for your prying, Ariel, I would never have known about this. We would have been burned up and…"

A crashing unlike anything I ever heard began shaking the tunnel, shaking it so hard that my skull rattled. Dirt showered onto us. Rocks fell. The earth under us quaked so hard that we fell, screaming, to the ground. The Ayrie was collapsing. I could almost hear it; the glass splintering, the concrete pounding down through every spiral of the staircase, exploding, the whole thing cracking like a felled tree and plunging to the earth…

Ariel clung to me and shrieked, but I could barely hear her. I could barely do anything. I covered my face and cowered. The pressure was unbelievable; I felt as though I were being pounded mercilessly into the ground, into smithereens, into dust!

It was like Hell. All my life, I had made jokes about going to Hell. I figured that's where all average men ended up; it was a manly sort of a thing to assume, but in that moment I completely changed my mind. If this was what Hell was, this eternal fiery pounding down, down, ever down, than I never wanted to go to Hell. To this day, I do not even make jokes about it anymore.

When at last it stopped, a smoky sort of mist entered the tunnel, like a blend of smoke and dust. It became very hot. Sleepiness overcame me.

"Greg'ry," murmured Ariel, lying across me. "I'm so tired."

I hadn't even the strength to reply. Slowly, surely, the darkness pulled down my eyelids, and the two of us dropped into an unconscious slumber.

)

(

)

Hours had passed. A brief shower, driven by the wind, helped extinguish the flames, reducing Coney Island to a smoldering pile of twisted frames and ashes, still exuding billows of smoke. A crowd of city folk was gathered around, mingling with the devastated workers and freaks. The damage had been done. There was not a foot that had not been completely destroyed. Fireman cautiously advanced in, searching for the cause of the fire, as well as money safes and valuables that may possibly have survived.

_Still, Alf would not give in. Grabbing a fireman who was on his way back out of the rubble, he wheezed, sweat mingling with his tattoos, "Please…my daughter…black haired, navy skirt, striped shirt…have you seen her?" _

"_Mac, I've got to look for a whole slew of…"_

"_Please! Did you see her?"_

_He sighed and wiped his forehead. "I've seen a lot of girls today. What's her name?"_

"_Ariel Fleck." _

"_Ariel Fleck. Navy skirt, striped shirt." He pulled out a notepad, which was crammed with names, and took note of it. "Alright. If I come across an Ariel Fleck, I'll take her to the firehouse, okay?" _

_Another fireman jolted at that name. "What'd you say, Marvin?" _

"_Say what? The name? Uh, Ariel Fleck. You seen her?" _

_The other man was still, his soot-streaked face growing solemn as he looked at something in his hand. "I got something with her name on it here. Found it near the East gate, with a bunch of scrap metal." _

_It was the scorched, twisted remains of a part of Ariel's leg brace, on which a crumbling remnant of her lacey slip was still attached. _

Alf was absolutely silent as he received it into his hands. He just stared at it, numb, disbelieving, almost uncomprehending. Upon turning it, he saw "Ariel Fleck", still engraved on the scorched nameplate, blackened by fire, as gruesome as a gravestone.

"_This…" he murmured feebly, voice cracking, eyes swelling, "Is my daughter's leg brace." _

_The fireman bowed his head, his lips tight, painfully used to such tragedies. "I'm very sorry, sir. We will continue to search…"_

For her remains,_ he didn't say, but it hung on the air, as horrible as anything said aloud, and after giving Alf a pat on the back, he hurried back into the rubble. The other freaks approached silently, sorrowfully, almost afraid to look. _

"_What is it, Alfred?" Mrs. Beardsley quavered._

_Alf said nothing. He extended Ariel's scorched brace piece, allowing it to say everything. There was complete silence as the assembly slowly comprehended the meaning of the terrible sight, and then, one by one, they dissolved into anguished cries and wails. _

"_No! No!" screamed Genevieve. "Ariel!" _

"_Air-yull," moaned Aggie as Ann put down her head and wept. _

"_Dead," muttered Mr. Geddes, shaking his head, tears in his eyes. "De Rossi and Ariel, dead."_

"_Oh, when Mr. Y finds out that they're gone…!" wailed Mrs. De Luzy. _

"_I don't even know what to say, Alfred dear." Mrs. Beardsley touched his shoulder, trembling. "To lose them like this…oh, Alfred!" _

_But Alf remained silent, just staring at the brace. He did not seem to hear anyone, or see anything but it, the only thing in the world he had left._

"_There…" he whispered blankly, hands shaking as though it were suddenly too heavy to hold, "There is… nothing… left to…"_

"_Alfred dear, you need to sit down. Help me, Tom!" _

_He kept staring, the light leaving his eyes and the color draining from his cheeks. "There… is nothing…" _

_Hands seized him hastily, for he was swaying on his feet, fainting._

"_Get the man something to drink!" _

"_Hurry! He's passing out!" _

_His knees crumpled, and he was eased to the pavement, growing ever paler, as though suddenly freezing, his voice growing weaker, the face of tattoos growing still, the eyes dimming. Still, he held the brace. _

"_Nothing…to…" he gasped. _

"_Where is Doctor Lawrence? Find him, quickly!" _

"_Alf! Alf!"_

_His eyes beheld the smoldering remains of Coney Island one last time, and then they closed. "Nothing…to…live for." _

)

(

)

Hours probably passed, certainly hours; I hadn't any means of checking time, but when I opened my eyes again, becoming aware of the ground and Ariel's head on my chest, I felt achy, as though I had been there for some time. There were stiff creases in my sleeves and trousers. For some time, I rested my hands on Ariel and just lay there, blank. Dimly, I knew that we must get to safety, but was somehow at a loss for action. Perhaps I had inhaled something, or perhaps it was the heat, but it felt as though I were hallucinating.

In my woozy mind, a woman's voice spoke.

"Help Ariel!" it pleaded.

Had that truly been a voice? I blinked. Had Ariel made a sound that echoed? It was a familiar voice, but yet, it was so different…

"Help Ariel! Get up!" it repeated urgently, and I jolted. I knew that voice! It was musical, sing-song, so much like Ariel's. Was I losing my mind? Slowly, I sat up, pulling Ariel with me.

Then Alf's voice, as loud and clear as if he were standing beside me, rang out.

"Get out of this tunnel!" ordered his growly voice, first beside me and then farther down the tunnel. "Out of this tunnel!"

"Alf!" I cried back. "Is that you? Where are you?"

My own voice crying_ 'are you?' _was all I got in reply, but I knew that Alf had definitely spoken. We had to keep going.

I shook Ariel until she groaned and stirred.

"Greg'ry…wha?"

"It's your Dad, Ariel," I told her hastily, helping her to her feet. "I hear him. He's telling us to get out of this tunnel. I hear him up ahead!"

"Daddy?" she called down the tunnel. "Daddy! It's me, Ariel! And Gregory too! Daddy!"

Together, we hurried through the darkness, at least knowing that there was surely an end in sight. After all, if Alf was calling for us to get out, that meant there was a way. Sure enough, there was! Suddenly I perceived little rays of light pooling at the foot of yet another ladder, the end of Mr. Y's escape route. I clutched the steel footbars.

Before I could even express relief or say a word, there was a crack, a gargantuan heave of the earth that almost knocked me to the ground. A burst of air and soil blasted us in the back, stronger than any hurricane, and then it stopped. It felt as though the sky had fallen.

In a way, it had.

For just behind us (we were right beside the ladder, in the upward tube to escape) there was nothing but dirt, like a wall. My jaw dropped. Ariel grabbed my arm and moaned. _The tunnel had collapsed._ If I hadn't woken up, if Alf hadn't yelled for us to get out, the two of us would have been crushed to death beneath untold tons of earth. No one would ever have known what happened to us.

"My God," breathed Ariel. "Gregory…"

Looking up the ladder, I gratefully cried, "You saved our lives, Alf! Boy, when I get up there, I…don't even know what I'm going to do, but I'll pay you back somehow, I promise! We're coming up!"

Up we climbed, looking ever upwards, towards the light, towards safety at last. A push, a creak, and daylight burned my eyes. The rush of air came with a hot, powerful stench of smoke and destruction, as well as the sounds of footsteps, tires, cries, and sirens. Ariel and me coughed as we dragged ourselves out.

)

(

)

"Oh, God." Ariel's voice was nothing but a petrified whisper. "It's all gone. There's nothing left. Nothing…"

She leaned against me as we stared numbly at what had once been Coney Island. There was nothing left. It was like a giant smoking ashtray with charred structures and torn, flapping banners. We could look right through it and see the ocean, something that would have been unthinkable the day before. You would have never guessed that it had once been one of the most beautiful tourist attractions in the world.

"But we survived," I said, feeling at least that tiny bit of triumph amidst the pain. "We're still here, and so is your Daddy. We'd better find him."

"Where is he?"

We gave the sidewalks a brief scan, but no Alf.

"You'd think he'd be here," I marveled. "After saving us like that. Maybe he got pushed aside? Hey, Alf!"

"Daddy! Where are you?"

"_My God! My God!"_ someone shrieked, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of an utterly undone Genevieve, whose pink eyes were now the size of dinner plates. _"They're alive! Damien! Mrs. Beardsley! Ariel and De Rossi are alive! They're right over here!" _

She threw herself, sobbing, onto Ariel and me, and all our freak friends came running over, every bit as astonished and wild.

"Alive! Thank God!" cried Damien.

Aggie-Ann's heads were aglow with tearful gratitude. "Oh, Air-yull!"

"De Rossi, how'd you escape?" demanded Mr. Geddes, white as a sheet. "Dear God, alive!"

Mrs. Beardsley touched our faces as if to assure herself that we were truly real. "Ariel dear, you're alright…" But her face froze, and all at once her eyes watered. "But…oh, Ariel…your father…"

"Yes, where is he?" asked Ariel gratefully. "We must see him at once. He called us out of the tunnel, but we can't find him."

I nodded. "Saved our lives, he did."

The atmosphere was completely unlike what you'd expect after a declaration like that. Every eye grew sad. People looked at each other solemnly. A few wiped their eyes. There was a long silence.

Ariel felt it. "What's wrong?" she asked slowly.

Mrs. Beardsley looked at Mr. Geddes for a moment, and after a nodded sort of agreement between them, she approached Ariel and put her hand on her shoulder.

"Ariel," she imparted, unable to look at her, "Your father has died."

I stared at her in disbelief, my heart plummeting, wondering if I'd heard her correctly. Alf dead? How?

Ariel recoiled as though she'd been burned. "W-What?" she cried. "No! That's impossible! He called me!" She looked around at every bowed head in horror, shaking her head in denial. "He called me!"

"Ariel dear, that's impossible. Your father has been dead for almost five hours now," said Mrs. Beardsley softly.

Ariel shook her head even more fiercely, but tears began glimmering in her eyes. "But…but he called me, Mrs. Beardsley," she croaked. "He…he…"

It was then that the reality of what had truly happened hit us. Alf really had called us, but it had been his spirit, along with Polly's. She had been that woman's voice. Together, the two of them, mother and father, had come to their baby's rescue.

Mine, too.

I wrapped my arms around Ariel, the gratitude mingling with a sudden rush of grief that burned in my eyes. Alf…

"He thought that you two had died," Mrs. Beardsley went on, trembling, "As did we, and when the fireman found a piece of your broken brace, he just…gave up, almost. He fell down and fainted. Doctor Lawrence tried to help him, but he didn't even seem to want to live…and then he just died."

She led us down the smoky sidewalk, back to the main gate. Wiping her eyes, she silently gestured to a body on the pavement that was covered by a sheet and some jackets. A bed sheet filled with Fleck family photographs and knick-knacks lay beside him. The other freaks hung their heads and kept their distance.

Ariel sunk to the ground at his side, shaking, and with a terrible chill in my heart, I gently pulled away the top of the shroud.

There, asleep on a bed of borrowed jackets, was Alf. There it was, that familiar, tattooed face, but death had removed all of the personality, the expression, everything that had ever set him apart. Now it was cold, blank, frozen, almost unreal. His limp hands still held Ariel's scorched brace bracket. It seemed as though it had been a weight, a massive one too heavy for even the mighty Mr. Squelch to bear, and it had crushed him into the ground and destroyed him.

"Daddy." Ariel gave him a tiny, useless shake. "Daddy. I'm here. You called me, and now I'm here!"

The first of my tears began to flow for my fallen friend. "It's no good, Ariel. He's gone."

But she kept on, knowing that he was beyond help but calling nevertheless, as if perhaps it could yet bring him back.

"I'm here!" She sunk down and put her head on the cold chest whose heart had stopped, sobbing harder with every word. "I'm here! I'm here! _Daddy…I'm…here!"_

That he would not immediately rise to comfort his daughter was the truest testament to Alf's death. Gutted, I put my head down alongside Ariel and cried along with her, broken beyond measure at how a mere day had wrought this destruction: our homes, our jobs, all our things, and what would have been my father-in-law. Now Ariel was an orphan. I was all that she had left.

I knew it was no good to talk to a dead man, but I did anyway. Right then and there, I promised Alf that his daughter was safe with me, thanked him for saving my useless hide, if only for Ariel's sake, promised with tears and a genuine heart that I would remember my promise to love her as much as he had.

"I will take care of you, Ariel," I whispered to her. "I promise."

But all she understood was the body before her. _"I'm h-here…Daddy…"_ she wept on until she was too weak to speak anymore.

Our fellow freaks sat down around us and mourned. We were like a little deformed circle in the midst of the crowd.

After some time-minutes, hours, I could not tell-I heard my name being shouted in the distance.

"_Eccolo! Grazie a Dio! Greg!"_

"_Greg, siamo noi! Giovanni e Maria!"_

Wiping my eyes, I sat up to behold the sweaty, pale figures of Giovanni and Maria running up the street, their hair frazzled, their clothes limp, but their faces brightening with tears and gratitude, and all at once they were upon me. I rose to hug them.

""Ah, Greg!" cried Giovanni, hugging me as he never had before, "We saw the fire all-ah de way from our house! Brother!"

"We thought you were hurt," added Maria, hugging my other side. "And when we couldn't find you…"

I never realized how much I loved the two of them, especially my irritating big brother. In that moment, everything I ever held against him was forgiven, as it always is in terrible tragedies, and as I embraced them I amazed myself with how deeply I could feel.

"We just escaped, Ariel and me," I told them. "Just in time."

Giovanni wiped his eyes. "Thank God. Yes, thank God."

"Come with us, Greg," said Maria. "We will clean you up, and Ariel too, and then we will get ready to go back to Roma."

But I was not going. After too long a pause from me, Maria could sense it in my eyes.

"What is wrong, Greg?"

I could not look at her as I admitted it. "Maria, there is no way I can go with you anymore. It is not that I don't want to come, but…" I gestured with my head over my shoulder… "Ariel's dad has died, just today. She has no one in the world. She needs me."

Maria took two huge steps back upon seeing Alf's dead body, pressing her fingers to her lips and moaning, for she was terrified of death. "Oh, I thought he was just hurt. Oh, oh! Padre mio!"

As for Giovanni, there was no pleasure in his face at the prospect of me staying in America, at least not under these circumstances, and his eyes swam with grief. "But what will you do, Greg? You have no home, no job!"

"Yes, how will you live?" added Maria, every bit as dejected as he was.

"I will pull through," I told them. "I have a little money, and there are jobs out there in the city. All I know is that I must stay with Ariel."

Maria's mouth quivered. "We will miss you, Greg."

"And I will miss you, Maria." I smoothed her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "But you have a life to go on living, and so do I. There's nothing to do but just keep on. Go, have the happiest life you can. Be a good wife to Giovanni."

The decision had been made, although Giovanni couldn't have detected it, and Maria closed her eyes and nodded, accepting it.

"I will always love you, Bella."

She held me and kissed me one last time. "Arrivederci, Bello."

Giovanni looked from her to me with a face that might have been triumphant, but he couldn't manage it, not in a situation like this. He fumbled about in his wallet and handed me a ten-dollar bill. "To help you," he said.

"Thank you."

"So you really are not coming, Greg?" he repeated. "You are staying with Ah-ree-ella?"

I nodded.

He looked me over sadly, but there was a great deal of pride in his eye. "You've become a grown man at last, Greg."

)

(

)

It wouldn't be until some time later that Alf had kept a journal. It had been salvaged, along with the family photographs. Ariel read it with me. Boy, the man really had a high opinion of me, and I was surprised to see that he really beat himself up a lot. In fact, one quote really sticks with me:

"Just once before I die, I'd like to do something to merit the "Mighty" in my stage name, because, frankly, I don't think I've earned it."

That's Alf for you. Mercilessly hard on himself, even to the end, but in my heart I knew that he had fulfilled his wish. A body cannot run through fire, no, not even to save one's child, but a spirit can. Despite the massive reserves of energy that would've enabled him to live on without us, Alf took the burden of death and surrendered, allowing it to crush him instead of Ariel and me, and once liberated from his body he saved our lives.

The mightiest act I'd ever known had not been so because of what Alf had endured, but what he had permitted to destroy him. If that doesn't merit a "Mighty" in one's name, I don't know what will.

And so died the Mighty Mr. Squelch, the best man I'll ever know.

_**(This concludes Gangle's telling of the story.)**_

**NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:**

**TWO chapters left! One sad, one happy! You'll get the beginning of the twist next time! **

**Thank you one and all for reading! We're approaching the end. **

**I've got some more crap up over at my deviantart (littlelivewire), if you care. **


	25. Fleck's Memories

EXCUSE TIME: This took a while, because I had to consolidate 15 years' worth of action into a single chapter in a manner that is readable and cohesive. A good alternate title for this would be "Fleck's Sad Life", but in the next chapter, our finale, all of the sadness will be over!

ALSO! Remember the posters that Ariel tore the eyes out of? You find out why in this chapter. I didn't forget….

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fleck's Memories

Abandonment

He had abandoned us, after ten long years of something like friendship, and he erased everything he'd ever made. Mr. Y and Gustave were gone. Daddy was dead. The world as I knew it was nothing but ashes on a windswept plain. Gregory, the Fleck family photographs, and Daddy's journal were the only things I had in the world.

Our only home thus destroyed, we freaks were forced to go our separate ways. Some of us would sign on to a circus or another freak show, some of us would seek out relations, and the less freakish among us, like me and Gregory, would have to see about getting actual jobs and holding down an apartment or something. But first there was the heartbreaking task of laying Daddy to rest.

He had purchased his own plot along with Mama's back when he had to plan her funeral, which preserved a lot of our meager savings, but the engraving, a simple coffin, and the actual internment almost wiped it clean. Thank God we had enough. To not be able to bury Daddy next to Mama would have broken my already broken heart into dust.

The funeral was the very last time we were all together. One by one, we knelt beside Daddy's casket and told him goodbye. Oh, that was so hard for me, that funeral, so hard, but Gregory didn't let me go for a moment.

"Good bye, Daddy," I told him, kissing his tattooed cheeks one last time. "I love you. Say hello to Mama for me."

Then we freaks were scattered abroad. There was one last moment of togetherness, one last kiss from Mrs. Beardsley, one last prayer from Aggie-Ann, one last handshake with all the men, one last sad smile from Genevieve as she got into a cab with Damien, and then off we all went.

Our First Home

Signor and Signora De Rossi managed to get a cheap room in a boarding house, and when I say "room", I mean it. That was basically all there was. A main room with a cook-stove that only seemed to work at intervals, a closet, and a tiny bedroom, and all throughout the place there were chinks in the plaster and rips in the faded wallpaper. Still, it was something, and it was here where Gregory and I made our first home, where we would remain for three months.

There were very few jobs for women in 1907, but I actually managed to get a job as a telephone operator at Bell Atlantic. Easy work, connecting wires and saying "number please" all day, but I had to lie and say that I was single, which was a half-truth. Married or otherwise involved women could not work for my company. As for Gregory, he got hired to work as a custodian for a local grocery store. Over the span of three months, we amassed a teensy little fortune to keep us alive, and we made a special little fund for our future wedding. We never did eat very well, and all the dinners I ever made for Gregory were scraped out of jars, but we had each other. A week after we moved in, I bled, confirming that I was not pregnant after all, but it certainly was a strange period. Very light, and it couldn't have lasted more than a day or two. Furthermore, I didn't bleed again through October or November. I chalked it up to the unhealthy, sparse diet and thought nothing more of it. Perhaps we shouldn't have, but Gregory and I had sex a lot. After work, we ate whatever god-awful meal I could make with the jarred goods on hand, cleaned up, and took it right to the bedroom. You'd think we'd have backed off after the pregnancy close call, but take it from me: practicing complete abstinence in a small shared bed just doesn't happen, especially when you love the man you're sharing it with. Even so, Gregory's extensive experience produced a great many homemade contraceptive methods, and we assuaged our consciences with the thought that we would surely be married soon.

Then something dreadful happened.

Losing Gregory

It was late November or perhaps early December when we were evicted. It wasn't that we hadn't made payments or anything, but I guess word got to the management somehow that "Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi" weren't actually man and wife, and in the interest of keeping a "respectable" boarding house, they threw us out, very abruptly, on the coldest night in December. We were literally forced to the curb with our things, although Gregory certainly didn't go silently. If there had been any hope of perhaps kindling any pity in the management's heart, he ruined it with a good half hour of screaming and threats.

It was all in vain. Out we went, onto the street, into the biting cold. Miserably, I sunk onto the pavement beside our bags and wondered how I was going to be able to go to work in the morning.

"Oh, Gregory," I moaned. "What are we to do now? We've got to get another room somehow, and we haven't even had dinner…"

Eyes still gleaming with fury, he looked at the door from whence we had just come. He clenched his fists. "Ariel, I'll fetch you dinner." He cracked his knuckles. "And a little more. Okay?"

I'd been with him long enough to know that this meant something bad.

"What do you mean? Dear, you're not going to do anything…_drastic,_ are you?"

"Nothing drastic," Gregory replied slowly, watching the windows. "I am just going to sneak in and get us all the food we need. Also, I saw one of them buy a big cake; I'll nab that too."

"So you're stealing it? Oh, no, Gregory, that would..."

"Serve them right!" he finished for me, and after cautioning me to remain hidden the alley, in he snuck.

There was silence for a long time. Shivering, I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and wished that he would hurry, or cut it out and come out, but all at once there was a cry, a clatter, and then I heard furious screams.

"Father!"

"Drop that, you! Drop it!"

"Get off me, you son of a…!"

"Murder! Call the police, someone! Murder!"

Murder? I staggered back, stifling the scream in my throat. Gregory had murdered someone? Oh, what had happened? What were they going to do to him?

It turned out that when Gregory snuck in to steal the food and cake, the landlord's elderly father had been getting a cup of water, and sight of him emptying the cabinets in the darkness startled him, causing him to fall down the stairs and be killed. The noise had awoken the son and his brothers, and they grabbed him and called the police. When I hobbled in, frightened, this was the scene I was presented with, and when they recognized me, they seized me too.

"Threw 'em out tonight, we did!" cried the landlord to the police chief. "Greasy wop and his girlfriend put up quite the riot on the way out, too! Just look at my poor father!"

Both of us were arrested. The police contacted the Italian Embassy, who contacted the Milanese police, who verified that a "Gregory De Rossi" was a suspected accessory in a whole slew of Mafia murders and robberies. What in the world could be said? There wasn't anything we could do.

Away we went to court. On one side of the courtroom sat a whole regiment of angry family members, and on the other side sat me, alone, trying not to cry at the sight of Gregory handcuffed between two police officers. BANG! Down came the gavel, with the cruelest words I ever heard: _Fifteen years in Brooklyn City Prison, no parole. One closed visit allowed per two weeks. _Fifteen years! As for me, I was to be sent to prison for three weeks.

Before I was to be taken away, I was allowed to see Gangle in prison for an hour.

My Promise

It ended up being our first prison visiting session, and easily the most miserable we've ever endured. There he was behind the glass, his head bowed, his voice trumpet hanging uselessly to the side. He looked as though he'd lost weight already; there was leanness in his cheeks and a visible darkness shadowing his eyes as he looked at me, as though seeing me from a long way off. It seemed he couldn't find anything to say. I couldn't either. Oh, what were we going to do? Fifteen years!

"Ariel," he eventually muttered in despair, cutting into my desperate thoughts, "I am so sorry."

What could I say? I just gazed back at him like an idiot, hopelessly tongue-tied.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. "I would not hold it against you, Ariel, if you…" He paused, grief-stricken, but went on…"If you were to marry someone else, someone who can give you a place to live and food to eat…"

"No!" That shocked me out of my stupor. "Oh, Gregory, how could I ever do that?"

"To survive," came the defeated reply. "How could you survive for fifteen whole years with no home, no food?"

"And lose you? No, no, I couldn't!"

But it seemed as though he had already decided upon this course of action; I could see it in the way he was avoiding my eyes, as though he wanted the break to be as clean as possible.

My eyes burned with tears and rage. "So it isn't my decision," I just managed to spit out, jumping up. "You've already decided to let me go."

He shook his head, still not looking at me, but I could see the moisture starting to pool on his lashes. "Ariel," he said, "If you die, I will be ruined."

"But I won't die. I know I won't." Resolve flared up in my chest. "There's the uncollapsed part of the tunnel; I can keep warm in there. This is a big city, and I always manage to find something to eat, on top of what people will give me. By golly, if Johnny Appleseed can hoof it across Pennsylvania barefoot with a pot on his head, I guess I can survive in the city where I was born!"

Rather than inspire confidence, every word seemed to make Gregory more distressed.

"Gregory, please listen to me." I pointed to the plain old prison calendar, hanging over on his side. "I'm making you a promise. It is 1907 now. It will be 1922 in fifteen years. When that year comes-" The Twenties seemed so ridiculously far away that I trembled, but went on-"I will still be here, ready to marry you, and no one else."

He lifted his head and looked at me.

"Cross my heart, dear," I intoned solemnly, sealing the promise.

Gregory wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I will never understand how someone as good as you ever gave a damn about someone like me, Ariel," he mumbled, quite overcome. "I love you."

Fleck In Jail

Too soon, our time together was over, and off I went to the Brooklyn City Womens' Prison, where I was given a black prison dress, a white cap, and a cell, which I shared with two sickly prostitute girls. One was a fair haired, thin little thing called Clara, and a swarthy girl with a rash called Theodora. When the matron pushed open the door to admit me, they sat up from a game of cards and stared at me most interestedly.

"This is Ariel Fleck," the matron informed them. "She's only serving three weeks, and until then, she will share this cell with you."

A grinding scrape, the clank of a door being shut, and then I was alone with those two girls, who wasted no time in introducing themselves, offering me cigarettes and candy, and generally being quite accommodating. All I wanted to do, however, was cry. After giving them a bare bones description of myself and tasting a lemon drop, I sunk onto my cot and sobbed.

"Hey, Ariel," said Clara soothingly. "Don't take it so bad. Three weeks are gonna fly, and then out you'll go."

"That's just the thing!" I cried. "I have nowhere to go. I have no parents, no home, no nothing, and my fiancé is going to be in jail for the next fifteen years. I don't have anything!"

Theodora moaned in sympathy. "Fifteen years, huh? I'm real sorry."

"You know, once we're out of here, I can ask the head of our brothel to give you a job," offered Clara. "You'd be shocked how much money Theodora and I make, even on a slow night."

Me? A prostitute? Oh, no, banish the thought! Those girls tried so hard to comfort me, but that night was destined to be one of tears and heartache, and at length they were forced to just leave me alone. I wondered if Gregory were feeling just as bad on his first night in prison, the first night of what would be our fifteen-year separation. If only I could drift to his side like a spirit, to watch over him. If only this had all turned out right. That first night was terrible.

A Delicate Condition

For one beautiful moment in the early morning, I imagined that I was in my bed, home in Fleck Manor, and Daddy was just rumbling to his feet to make tea. The sun was warm. Another day at Phantasma was beginning. But clanks against the metal snapped me right out of it, and the matron's heels clacked as she strode up and down the corridor, crying, "Rise and shine, ladies!" Clara and Theodora grunted and hopped out of bed. I opened my eyes. Here I was, Ariel Fleck, in jail with other bad girls.

The three of us hustled into our dresses and caps, preparing for our breakfasts. I squinted. My stomach was uneasy, and there was a cold sweat creeping up my back that I couldn't shake, not even after taking a sip of sink water.

"Wonder what slop is on the menu today!" chirped Clara, trying to keep the mood sunny. "You'll get used to the oatmeal, Ariel, I swear. I'll let you have my share of the brown sugar today."

But I suddenly couldn't move. I clenched the sides of the sink, feeling as though the world were draining away, and all at once the floor seemed to rock.

"Ariel!" cried Theodora, grabbing me. Her bosom against the back is the last thing I remember before the blackness enclosed me.

I awoke upon a white bed in a white room, with a white-clad nurse over me. Fancies of Heaven filled my mind, but were swept away when the lady commented, "Now she's coming around. How do you feel, Miss Fleck?"

"I have a headache," I heard myself complain through the daze. "And I'm nauseous."

She sat down beside me and took my hand. "Very normal, very normal. Miss Fleck, you've had an examination by the doctor while you were asleep, after we were certain that you were stable."

"Have I?"

"Yes, and it seems that you're expecting a baby."

There was not a trace of duplicity in her matronly brown eyes, which terrified me out of my wits. What? No! There had to be a mistake!

I struggled to sit up. "That's not possible," I insisted feebly. "Why, I have had a period. You can't be expecting and have that happen."

She blinked in surprise, and I told her about the short bleeding three months ago, but rather than bamboozling her, she only shook her head. I had been mistaken. It hadn't been a period. It had been the fertilized egg implanting on my womb, and when it had a little blood had occurred. I was approximately ten weeks into my pregnancy!

Oh, what was I to do? Before it had been such a beautiful thought, but how could I have a baby when I was homeless and orphaned?

Clara had a rather simple answer.

"Don't," she said, patting my back sympathetically. "You just have to get yourself to bleed again; it'll end it. I've done it before, a whole bunch of times."

She said it so casually, but the idea still frightened me. "But I'd be killing the baby, Clara," I protested in confusion. "I would, wouldn't I?"

She frowned. "Baby? Whenever I did it, all that came out of me were gobs of blood. I didn't see much that was alive in the first place. Hmm. How pregnant are you?"

I told her ten weeks, which brought a shadow of deep thought to her eyes. "Hmm. And in three weeks you'll be thirteen. I never waited until that long. I always did it immediately. Still, I wager it'd turn out all right. It isn't all that much longer."

"Pennyroyal pills are what you need," chipped in Theodora, sitting beside me. "They'll set you back two dollars, but they work. At the druggist, they come in a scarlet tin with lots of writing on it. I've done it too. We take precautions at the brothel, but sometimes it doesn't work."

There I was, on the cot, Theodora and Clara on either side of me, chirping advice as I wracked my brains for an answer to this moral dilemma. They said it was blood, gobs of blood, and gobs of blood couldn't be alive, could they? But that was early. What was it like this late? It really could be alive now. But I was homeless, orphaned, crippled! But it wasn't right! But they'd done it so many times, and they'd come through unscathed…

"It's best to have a towel around when you do it," said Clara. "It's like having a big period. It can hurt something awful, but it does work. Besides, what could you possibly do otherwise, Ariel?"

She wasn't looking for an answer. It was one of those questions where you know there's only one option and you've got no choice but to take it.

Baby De Rossi Dies

Straightaway after my release, I did precisely what Clara instructed. At a local druggist, I exchanged two precious dollars for a small scarlet tin of Pennyroyal Pills; elegant calligraphy across the lid assured me, in suspiciously vague terms, that the enclosed drugs would "quickly cure those distressing irregularities particular to ladies". Within, printed instructions instructed me to take one pill an hour until the whole supply was exhausted.

After I was settled back in my tunnel home, I did just that. The first cramps started not long after the final dose, right on cue, just as Clara had said. At first they were barely noticeable. Unfortunately, they progressively worsened, and soon they were twisting my insides with pangs that made me break into a cold sweat. Remembering Clara's advice, I lowered myself onto a little towel, and keeping as calm as I could, I let my knees drop open and waited for the blood to come. It was like being in labor, I guess, lying there, groaning with pain, awaiting the end of my pregnancy.

Eventually, warmth bubbled out of me, and the pain lessened. It had worked! I lay back, closed my eyes, and relaxed, waiting for the bleeding to run its course and cease. It was all over. Once I felt comfortable enough to sit up straight, I decided to clean up. That was that. I looked at the towel, expecting to see a lot of blood.

What I saw lying there lifeless will haunt me until the day I die.

It's too heartbreaking for me to describe, even all these years later, but this I'll tell you: one look at that towel, and I knew I had made the most horrible mistake of my life. I had made a baby with Gregory that night in the carriage, and now, in this tunnel, I had murdered it. Had I truly believed that only blood would come out? Truly? Or had I just wished it? Shaken to the very soul by the enormity of my crime, I gently folded the towel over, and Baby's receiving blanket became its funeral shroud. I never found out if it was a girl or a boy.

That night, I took a stone and dug Baby a grave right between Daddy and Mama, in the churchyard of Saint Anastasia's. It felt laying a little angel grandchild in their arms, placing that bundle into the warm earth. They would love it, yes, love it deeply, as I knew they would have on earth; that was the only consolation I had in all the world as I pushed the dirt back into the grave and said goodbye.

"Daddy, Mama," I asked them softly, "Please take care of my little baby."

I remained there, eyes closed, feeling as though I ought to pray, or say something, but I couldn't. There was nothing more to do. Dimly, I knew I must tell Gregory, knew that retribution would surely come, knew a whole lot things, but all I knew was complete numbness as I walked back to my little tunnel home.

There was still blood in the dirt where I had lain, smeared there like an accusing, scarlet witness. I became aware of it when I stepped off the ladder. Grabbing a stick, I stabbed it, mixed it, scattered it, blending it into the rest of the dirt, blending and blending until it was reduced to nothing but a pile of brown dirt scrapings.

Then I sunk down into it and screamed myself hoarse, as only a mama who has lost her little one can.

Those Eyes

The next morning, the day after Baby's meager funeral, marked the start of my descent into alcoholism, an issue that would plague me for years. This time, when a sad-eyed gentleman gave me a couple beers, I didn't even think twice. I tore the caps off with my teeth and downed every last one. It was dangerous. I was hurting myself. But I hated myself so much that I didn't even care. Bottle after empty bottle soared into the gutter, and I, too inebriated to even walk straight, fell over against the fence and just lay there.

Gregory was absolutely devastated when I told him what I had been through. He'd sniffled around me a good couple times before, wiped his eyes and all that, but that day marked the first time he ever out-and-out cried. We both did. It was the saddest meeting we ever had. By the end of the story I was a sobbing pile of nerves, begging for forgiveness.

"I forgive you," he assured me, putting his hand on the glass so I could touch it. "I am so sad to lose Baby, but you were afraid, Ariel, and you didn't have anywhere to go, anything to do, and it's my fault this happened at all anyway."

As much as I knew it didn't make sense to beat myself up over it forever, I couldn't help it. Grief immobilizes you, makes you unable to be rational, and there's nothing more soul crushing, more mind-numbingly painful than losing your child. You never move on. I still haven't. I never will. If I am blessed with the chance to be able to have more babies with Gregory, I'm going to be a wreck throughout the whole pregnancy, remembering Baby.

The fading posters, on which were the faces of the friends I'd once known, made it worse. Their eyes seemed to follow me. On a day when I was particularly wild with smoke and beer, I took a rock and blinded them-every last one. Whether I screamed or cried, I can't recall, but I was vicious and thorough, scraping and scratching until every last face was eyeless. Genevieve, Damien, Christine Daae, Aggie-Ann… They could not stare at me in my sin anymore.

Speaking of sin, I bet Daddy was weeping in Heaven, watching me get drunk every night and puking in the gutter every morning. I ought to have wept for myself, frankly, but I was too far gone. Before long, it was no longer a crutch. Alcohol soon became my one true love, a cruel but satisfying master, and soon cigarettes jumped on the bandwagon, after someone tossed me a pack of Lucky Strikes. Smoke, sip, smoke, sip, burp, repeat. That's what I did for the next five years, in a nutshell. I sold all three feet of my hair for the money, came close to selling my molars, but I never sold the use of my body. That was off-limits. Everything else was fair game.

The Titanic

Gregory had been corresponding with Giovanni ever since the beginning of his sentence. Quite a few things had happened that were of note: for one, he had married Maria. Their marriage hadn't produced any children yet, but they were hoping for one soon, to inherit the restaurant they had successfully opened in the south of Rome. Financially, they were making decent profits. They were so kind as to send me money whenever they could.

For their fourth wedding anniversary, they decided to take a cruise back to America on the _Titanic,_ the largest and most luxurious steamliner in the world. They could only afford a third-class ticket, but it would be the ship's maiden voyage, and it would be fun. There was a lot of buzz about it in New York at the time; I overheard innumerable conversations about how so-and-so was going to go down to the harbor to watch it come in, and it excited me so much that I decided to join them.

Mr. and Mrs. Giovanni De Rossi promised that when they arrived, they would visit Gregory and me, and see what they could do for me in my situation.

So, early in the morning on April 14, 1912, I went skipping down to the harbor with an unopened bottle of beer to give them, thrilled at the prospect of seeing that great big ship come sailing in. There I waited, watching the horizon. I hadn't seen any newspapers, nor heard any scuttlebutt; it was too early, and after a good long time passed, I became both confused and impatient. Was it running late?

"What are you standing about for, Miss Fleck?"

It was Mr. Hansen, a man who had to pass by me often on his way to the docks, who often gave me candy. He was a fisherman.

"Waiting for the _Titanic _to come," I replied.

"Take it you haven't heard, then."

"Heard what?"

He sucked in his lips regretfully for a moment, and then his sympathetic eyes met mine. "The Titanic's gone. Struck an iceberg yesterday and sank."

Oh, if only he were joking, but he wasn't. Before the day was much older, newsboys took to the street, their signs emblazoned with the grim declaration: TITANIC DISASTER; GREAT LOSS OF LIFE. Other headlines declared: 1,500 TO 1,800 DEAD! BAND PLAYED UNTIL END! J.J. ASTOR LOST. I went down to the harbor with a great many others to wait for the survivors, who were coming on the _Carpathia._ When at last those poor, ragged people disembarked, I witnessed the most beautiful reunions, the most wondrous displays of humanity and selflessness, the most heartbreaking disappointments a girl ever saw, but I never did see either Giovanni or Maria.

I didn't give up right away; perhaps I simply hadn't seen them, but as time wore on and they did not appear on survivor lists, fear began poisoning my hope. The death blow came two days later, when I was finally allowed to see Gregory. His clenched jaw and the dullness of his eyes, which had clearly been shedding tears for days, confirmed my worst fears.

"Ariel," he said before I could even say anything, "Both Giovanni and Maria are gone."

He had seen the headline in the newspapers provided at breakfast, and telegram inquiries, along with their failure to contact him somehow, confirmed that Giovanni and Maria had died at sea along with the majority of the third-class Italian passengers. I remembered how I had scorned Maria for misquoting Poe, as though it had been a crime, and as I reached to touch Gregory's hand my eyes burned with grief and shame. Oh, what did it matter? I had been such a spiteful little ninny.

Gregory was and still is tremendously hurt by their loss, even to this day. We'll be talking, and right out of nowhere he'll explode, furiously, "The most advanced ship in the world, and they couldn't figure out how to make it safe! _Branco di idioti!"_ Nowadays, up in Halifax, there's a graveyard for those who perished on the Titanic; among the graves, a stone was erected for both of them. I have never seen it, but Gregory and me plan to take a trip there when we are married at last.

Memories Of The Past

Two years later, The Great War began. Crowds lined the streets as our boys marched bravely off to war, and I, the fabled Miss Fleck, was there as well, my trusty pack of Lucky Strikes in my pocket and a beer in my fist. The war would ultimately mean three things to me:

I'd have less food.

I'd get fewer donations from folks.

Gregory and me would actually have something to talk about.

I'm not trying to sound flippant, mind you. I'm just being truthful. Bums care little for the philosophical and spiritual ramifications of war, not when there are "big picture" needs to be fulfilled, like food, shelter, and counting one's nickels.

Gregory was big on talking about the war, particularly when Italy got involved. Yap, yap, yap. I can see him in my mind, one hand flapping around while the other held his voice trumpet. If there hadn't been glass between us, I might have shook him.

Madame Giry came back not long after that. She returned completely out of the blue, sans Meg, dressed in black, her features more shrunken, soft, broken, as though she were possessed by a wandering spirit. I was taking a post-cigarette snooze when I heard her voice, narrating the contents of the posters in a strange monotone.

"Phantasma, city of wonders." She sounded as though she were reading it to someone, although no one was there. "Mr. Y presents marvels, astonishments, human prodigies…"

Something about her voice made all my memories of Phantasma come rushing back, and when I sat up and beheld her face, illuminated by the moon, I was speechless, frozen somewhere in time and space.

The sight of me affected her similarly. I understood. I'd certainly changed in seven years.

"You!" she gasped, backing up, meeting my eye unsteadily. "You! Miss Fleck…you're still here?"

I rose and stretched. "Of course I'm still here. The freaks, the monstrous, the bizarre…where else could I be but here? Cigarette?"

A stare was all I got in reply, so I felt no qualms in simply going on. As a matter of fact, seeing this face, this other person who once knew Phantasma as I had, filled me with a nameless sort of desperation. If only for a moment, someone who understood was with me.

"And after the tragedy, after the Master…" (I faltered in surprise at my own reverence towards him, even then) "…after he disappeared with the child…and after the fire that consumed everything…"

"His dream," she murmured sadly, closing her eyes. "Our dream."

_Our dream._ Yes, it had been, hadn't it? Tears sprung into my eyes; I couldn't help it. The memories were too powerful to resist.

"Remember how it all was?" I grabbed her arm and looked towards where it had all once been. "Remember?"

Standing there in the darkness, two refugees upon an old battlefield, we brought Phantasma and Coney Island back to life with nothing more than whispered memories. It was surreal. In the darkness, our imaginations gave free rein to pictures and stories, until it seemed we could conjure it all back. Once more, I walked through Phantasma's grinning gates, danced through the streets, ate breakfast with Daddy and Gangle, and soared through midair on my hoop. We remained in this state for what may have been hours; there was a horror in leaving Phantasma again, even if it all had been a dream, and when weariness at last overcame us I nearly cried with the pain.

"Here," I sniffed, lighting her a cigarette, which she accepted, and we sat down.

If you can even believe it, there was little discussion after that, not about Christine Daae, Mr. Y, Meg, anything, although she did wonder what I was doing alone. "Where are the other two?" was how she phrased it. I pulled no punches: Daddy had died shortly after the fire, and Gregory was in jail. I knew nothing about the others.

That was a strange meeting, seeing Madame Giry again. I have never seen her since. Perhaps she has died. Perhaps Meg did. I never asked. Something about her made me not want to know anyhow.

It was the reliving of those old memories that induced me to read my Daddy's journal at last. I'd always had it, along with all the old photographs, but I never could bring myself to read it. The pain was still too raw, even after seven years. The night after Madame Giry left, however, I dug through the stacks of photographs and pulled it out. It took me only two days to read it all. Rather than break my heart, seeing Daddy's own words in his own handwriting was so soothing. I cried when there was no more to read.

He had written the last entry on the day Phantasma burned down.

"September 4th, 1907. Ariel is to be married to De Rossi. I haven't the time to write down all the particulars and why and how; I am too overwhelmed with tasks to do. I will write about it later. But this I will say: it's really indescribable, sitting in this house and seeing none of Ariel's things in it anymore. I know very well that she's going to live only a walk away, and I ought not to put on such a routine over it, but I feel as though I have come to the end of an age, with very little warning, and I feel very old. Shall Alf become a grandfather? We'll see."

Just under that entry, I wrote my own little message of goodbye to Daddy, and then I wrapped the journal and put it away, knowing that I would always cherish it.

The Twenties

Five more years passed, and then the war ended in an explosion of confetti, screaming, and what almost amounted to a joy riot in the streets. I'll always remember it because some sailor-looking fella kissed me. There I was, minding my own bum business, cheering for our victorious army, and this kid swings me back and kisses me square on the lips. I might have excused it if that had been all (what with the overjoyed atmosphere and whatnot), but then he started talking about treating ol' Miss Fleck to a little sex, and I was obliged to punch him in the teeth.

"Two and a half more years until I get to hug you," smiled Gregory when I went to see him. "And I will marry you right after that! Twelve years have gone by, Ariel, can you even believe that?"

Sitting there, the thought was astounding. Back in 1907, it had seemed insane, but here I was. In two months, the year 1919 would be a dream of the past, and we'd enter the fabled Twenties. Up until that point, the Twenties were something we discussed in hushed, reverent tones, as if discussing an impending birth. What would they be like? How much would we, as well as the world, change?

Well, for one, I was thinner, older-looking, missing a few back teeth. A lot of my former beauty had drooled down the drain. Gregory's hair was a bit thinner, grayer, and there were definite lines around his mouth and on his forehead, but he was still Gregory, and I was still Ariel, and we still loved each other.

"We've changed on the outside, but we're still the same inside, dear," I told him cheerfully. "Speaking of which, they're playing _jazz_ at the Gypsy now, can you believe it? And I believe there is not a single woman left in Brooklyn who has not bobbed her hair; it's quite respectable now, I understand."

Yes, the ol' morale did get a boost once the Twenties rolled in, so much that we starting having conversations about our future, and one day Gregory even confessed something surprising to me.

"It's been working, Ariel," he told me, looking a bit humbled. "Did you know that got so scared for you once, that I prayed?"

Boy, he must have been scared.

"Really, Gregory? When?"

"I don't remember. All I remember is that I was watching you leave from my room. It was snowing out, and you were just about to go around the corner, but you stopped. It was as though you were afraid, didn't want to go on, and all at once you puffed yourself up and marched, as though telling yourself that you must."

"Then you prayed?"

"No, not then. I thought about it for a long time." His eyes met mine. "I realized how vulnerable you were, how I couldn't help you even if I wanted to. It hung over me like a shadow. It made me so depressed that I didn't even want to eat."

The thought of my poor depressed Gregory not eating melted my heart. "I'm all right dear," I assured him, pressing my hand to the glass so he could touch it. "Truly, I am."

When he touched my hand back, he shut his eyes, and his English grew lousy. "I 'ope so. I always so afraid that you get sick, maybe with new-moan-ee-ah or something, and you die…"

"You're getting yourself upset, dear, please don't worry."

"An' that is when I prayed," he went on, eyes still closed. "Because I not able to do anything else. And I promised that if he kept you okay through all-ah dese years, I would pray everyday until I die."

I was rendered speechless for a while, not only by Gregory's sweet and uncharacteristic behavior, but by my own sudden grief. I realized that Gregory, who hadn't even believed in praying, was doing it more than me.

"I'm so glad, dear," I told him. "I'm sure it will come true."

That evening, after my traditional round of alcohol and cigarettes, I was thoughtful. As I grew drowsy, watching my cigarette smoke mingle with the stars, concerns about the future came to the forefront of my mind. Once Gregory was free, where would he get a job? What if we got into a hole again, and he had to steal food, and got into trouble? What if I became pregnant by him again? I would never abort another baby, so I would raise the child, and it would need feeding…

I prayed for the ability to help both myself, and Gregory, and if I couldn't, I prayed for someone who would be so nice as to help. It felt incredibly irreverent and awful, praying for the first time in years with a cigarette in my teeth, lying in the dirt, drunk as a skunk, but I was very sincere.

Meeting Jay

My prayers were soon answered, for I met you, Jay!

You know how you met me. There I was, lying in the street after nearly getting creamed by that car, grateful that I had not died as my mama had, and you came rushing over with a Coke and a turkey sandwich. I'm sorry that I was so suspicious and mean at first. I didn't mean to. I suppose that the years of having to watch my back have made me into a suspicious old pigeon.

You were (and still are) so nice to Gregory and me; I can't possibly thank you enough. Here we are, at last, at the end of my story. You've heard it all, from my childhood to this very moment. As far as I know, there isn't any more to tell.

_**(This concludes the story of Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle.) **_

Mr. Whittington made one last notation, smiled, and set down his pad. It was three o' clock in the afternoon. The golden rays of the sun were illuminating his little parlor and shining in the teacups. The normal uproar on the street carried on as both he and Miss Fleck let out an elated sort of sigh, feeling as though they had come full circle on a great adventure together.

"Thank you very much, Ariel." Mr. Whittington, said, leaning forward to shake her hand. "That was the longest story I've heard yet, but I truly appreciate the time you've taken to tell me of it, and Mr. De Rossi too."

"It was the least I could do." Miss Fleck's eyes drifted dreamily over the piles of notes. "This whole experience of telling it has been something else, I'll tell you. It brought back a lot of pain, but so much happiness as well."

"And there's more story ahead, of course."

"Naturally. I guess it can only go up from here."

But Mr. Whittington detected a trace of shiftiness in his companion's eyes, a stiffness to her chuckle, as though she were toying with an idea.

"Jay," she blurted before he could ask. "I've kept it, you know. After all these years, I've never been able to let go of it, as much as I've wanted to."

"What?"

Her eyes closed, as though she were confessing something shameful. "Mr. Y's mask. The very same that I found lying in the tunnel, the day Phantasma burned down. I've kept it wrapped at the bottom of my bags. Let me show you."

It was indeed the mask, slightly chipped and evidently old, but the porcelain still gleamed in the light, and as Miss Fleck lifted it from the linen, it reflected in the darkness of her eyes. She turned it so that it was facing her, as if she were conjuring up the spirit of Mr. Y. Her aspect softened into her old "Miss Fleck" reverence.

"It's same one he wore every day. And sometimes, Jay, I think his spirit is still inside it."

Mr. Whittington watched in silence, fascinated by the mask but somehow unable to intrude upon Miss Fleck's strange, almost religious reverie.

She pressed it to her cheek, and when the cold porcelain touched her skin her body tensed. "When he kissed me, it brushed up against my cheek, like this," she breathed. "Just like this."

"So you're not bitter?"

She stopped and seemed to realize just what she was doing; he mask lowered, her cheeks flushed, and she smoothed her hair.

"I guess I'm not," she confessed, putting the mask aside. "I'm angry, yes, very angry, but not bitter." She couldn't resist letting her eyes fall upon it again. "I can't seem to ever feel bitter towards him, or even…"

"Even what?"

She swallowed and hastened to wrap the mask up again. "It's wrong," she said. "And I'm a fool to feel it. Why, if Gregory were to come in here right now and see me nuzzling Mr. Y's mask…he'd feel slighted by me, and I guess he'd have every right to."

Mr. Whittington sat next to her and took the wrapped mask, choosing his words carefully. "You still love him, even now?"

"Perhaps I'm not acting rationally on account of how sudden the break was," she began confessing, lips trembling, "But, Jay, I must tell you…when you told me that Mr. Y and Gustave died, I hugged his mask and cried all night. Anyone else might've said good riddance, but I _cried."_

"It's understandable. He was the last living link to the past for you. Don't feel so bad about it."

"It's more than that." Miss Fleck took the mask back from Mr. Whittington and hugged it to her heart. "It's a disgrace, frankly. It's true, what he wrote. Love never dies, Jay. Mine hasn't. It's been changed, and buried, and dug up, and pressed down, but it's never died. I love Gregory desperately, please understand, but I can't ever really let go of… Erik."

The sudden, unexpected usage of Mr. Y's true name halted the conversation, in which time Mr. Whittington reached out to comfort Miss Fleck, and she in turn wiped her eyes and endeavored to move on.

"Tell me about him, please," she almost whispered. "It was part of our deal, remember? I tell you about Phantasma, and you tell me about him."

"Of course, but are you sure you want to hear it tonight? All this story-telling seems to have worn you down…"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, really I am. Do tell me, please."

At this, Mr. Whittington looked towards his bookshelf and then at Miss Fleck, with the slightest of smiles bringing an air of concealed mystery to his countenance, "I could tell you. Or I could let Mr. Y himself do the talking."

Miss Fleck froze. "What do you mean, Jay?"

"Exactly what I said." He went to the bookshelf and opened a folder, in which was a yellowed envelope, tucked in layers of tissue paper, along with a larger orange one. "He never forgot you, Ariel. No, never. In all the time I knew him, he always regretted Phantasma, how he left, all that sort of thing, and he told me that if I ever should find you during my travels to America, I must give you this letter and this packet."

"Oh!" Miss Fleck cried, tears welling in her eyes as she recognized the elegant handwriting, the graceful cursive that was spelling her name across the envelopes. "For me? Oh, my goodness. After all this time…"

"I confess myself excited," said Mr. Whittington, sitting next to her. "I have never opened either one. I haven't the slightest idea what he has written or given to you. Come on, let's look at them together!"

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

Well, ladies and gents, next time is the finale! My one-year adventure of writing this story is coming to a close. Thanks for tagging along!

NOT SO FUN FACT: Pennyroyal and tansy are two herbs that can induce abortion, and back in Edwardian times there really were shady "pills" and "remedies" frequently used to cause it, made with those herbs. Abortion itself was illegal.

Sorry for the cliffhanger. NOT. I'm so mean!


	26. Long White Veil

Chapter Twenty Six

Long White Veil

Miss Fleck's fingers fairly flew over the envelope, and when she pulled out the letter, which was stiff and creased with age, her heart fluttered into throat. That elegant handwriting! There it was, curling and dancing in lines and paragraphs, just for her, a message from beyond the grave. The scent of old roses and paper still lingered it. She closed her eyes. If the scene hadn't been so different, she might have been eighteen years old again.

She was only dimly aware of Mr. Whittington's hand on her back.

"Are you alright, Ariel?" he asked. "I can read it to you, if you want."

The mere sight of "Dear Ms. Fleck" written in her Master's hand had stirred up emotions almost too strong for the already overwrought freak to take, and so Mr. Whittington took the letter and read it aloud, slowly.

_May 15__th__, 1916_

_Dear Ms. Fleck,_

_I cannot know where, when, or in what state you are receiving this letter, but I hope you are well and very humbly offer my greeting. I may as well begin by confessing that I do indeed have a tremendous amount of things to explain, answer, and apologize for, and I begin by admitting how very much I have wronged you and everyone who ever worked with me. _

_I was never honest with you, I'm afraid, neither about my past nor in my dealings with you, and for this apologize. As you likely know by now, I destroyed Phantasma myself, and took Gustave with me, the morning after Christine was shot. It was a knee-jerk, frightened, possibly insane move on my part, but one that I had always planned for in case of a crisis, and in my grief-stricken state all I wanted was to wipe the slate clean and move on. _

_What such a decision would mean to you and the others, I did not contemplate at the time. I actually remember very little of it; Gustave has had to fill in the blanks for me. The breakthrough came once the two of us found refuge in England, and I realized that Gustave was wearing your mother's ring. He had never told me until that moment, and I hadn't noticed, but when I saw this sweet gesture of sacrifice I was shaken to the core. Even until the very last day, you were nothing but loyal. Forgive me, please, for never truly seeing it. _

_From that point on I always wondered about you, your father, and the others. Where had you gone? What were you doing? What were you feeling, having been abruptly deprived of everything by one who ought to have rewarded you instead? And the years wore on. I thought of you whenever I saw the ring, or tasted honey (I remember the baklava yet), or put things in order, or played certain tunes. Soon, strange as it seems, your face came to represent all of the freaks, as a flag represents a country. Miss Fleck, somewhere, and how I longed to make amends. _

_I remembered, of all things, your confidence in a better day, an ultimate better day. You showed me only a bit of it, that day in the hot air balloon, but I have never forgotten. At the time, I thought you naïve. It takes a tragedy, I've discovered, to induce a man to think on these weightier things, and I suppose you'll be pleased to know that pondering them has helped me. Perhaps I will yet be vindicated. At the very least, I hope to behold the spectacle of your mother with two arms. _

_I have written this letter in the hopes that one day it will find you, through someone I can trust to deliver it, and with it I have included a mere tenth of what your years of loyalty have earned. _

_If I never see you again, my dear Miss Fleck, I was truly privileged to have known you._

_Sincerely, Erik ("Mr. Y") _

Silence reigned as the letter was placed upon the coffee table, interrupted only Miss Fleck's small, stifled hiccups of emotion. Quite affected himself, Mr. Whittington sat back and patted her.

"I'm fine," she insisted, ending her brief cry with a deep breath. "It's a lot to take, that's all. Very final, but sweet. And I helped him. I'm so glad I was able to help him. That's what I was meant to do, I think. Perhaps I'd confused it for the wrong sort of love."

"Hmm?"

"It's like this." Wiping her eyes, she took up the wrapped mask again. "Love is when you want to do right by someone, not for your own good but theirs. That's what I always wanted to do for Mr. Y, in return for his helping me. I was young then. I mistook it for romance. But love doesn't have to be romantic to be real." She brought the mask to her lips again. "It's likely the strongest of all, because there's nothing in it for you, not at all, except to glory in their happiness."

"The greatest joy is to give and not receive?" Mr. Whittington took a stab at summarizing it.

Miss Fleck nodded and tenderly wrapped the mask again, with the air of someone looking upon an old beloved photograph. "Yes. Our love is complete now, Mr. Y's and mine. I'm going to tell him that, after I die."

All that remained was Mr. Y's gift, the big envelope, within which was a cigar box. On the front was another note, much shorter:

_To Ms. Fleck, for her years of service, from her former employer. _

"But it doesn't feel like cigars," mused Miss Fleck. "Only thing to do is open it…"

And when she did, she froze for a moment in disbelief, and then she shrieked. Mr. Whittington leapt to his feet, equally amazed.

For in the cigar box were bound stacks of one-hundred dollar bills.

Miss Fleck picked them up, bunch after bunch, the color draining from her cheeks, her eyes wild with disbelief. "This…this can't…"

"Count them!" cried Mr. Whittington. "How many are in a stack, and then how many stacks in all!"

When all the mathematics were worked out and the sum was calculated twice, the number almost floored Miss Fleck. Ten thousand dollars._ (equivalent to 200k today)_

"Ten thousand dollars." She just stared at it, tears welling in her eyes. "He's given me ten thousand dollars, Jay, ten thousand! Oh, this is more than enough for Gregory and me to be settled for a good long while. Why, we're practically rich! I can't believe it…"

Mr. Whittington slapped his knee and laughed. "Ha! I'll tell you what! That's just like Father, to…"

The word hung in the air, as shocking as any swear word. The jubilation came to screeching halt. There was silence. Mr. Whittington trailed off, froze, swallowed, and said no more. Ariel rose to her feet, eyes widening.

"You finish what you were going to say this instant," she demanded hoarsely. "Just like _who_ to _what?"_

He laughed softly at himself and looked to his companion with a gentle, embarrassed smile. "What a time for an expert like me to muck up my lines, eh?"

'Miss Raven' stumbled back around the couch, flabbergasted, jaw dropping. "You…are not… I don't believe…"

But 'Mr. Whittington' silently reached into his pocket, and from it he drew an emerald ring that Miss Fleck thought she'd never see again.

"I never forgot you, Miss Raven."

"No! I…don't…"

"Am I going to have to start reciting 'The Raven'?"

Astounded, teary green eyes were reflected in that old emerald for a long moment, and then Miss Fleck ran to her little poetry buddy-now a grown man-and embraced him again.

"I should have…" she sobbed, "Should have known… by the way you knew so much of Mr. Y…oh, Gustave! You were a little boy then, and…look at you! A grown man, and I'm an ugly old hag."

"You are perfectly lovely," Gustave contradicted gently, hugging her. "Every bit as lovely as you were in 1907. You don't seem as tall, though."

"Why…have you lied? All this time, I thought you were Jay Whittington…"

"I lied because I wanted to know the whole truth, ironic as it seems. I knew that if you knew I was truly Mr. Y's son, there would be aspects of your story that you'd gloss over, not be completely truthful about, to spare my feelings."

"Were you ever going to tell me your true identity?"

"Yes," Gustave chuckled. "But the shock of seeing all that money made me slip up. Father would've been disappointed."

Miss Fleck reeled at hearing him call Mr. Y 'father', and with the return of her senses came a slew of questions. "So you didn't die in an air strike. You were away, as you said, but not as Jay Whittington, but as Gustave."

"Correct."

Sadness settled over them as the reality of this truth sank in.

"Losing him was terrible," Gustave said.

"I can only imagine." Miss Fleck lifted her face from his jacket and looked into his eyes. "Oh, Gustave, how did you ever get by? How did you get to America?"

"Father always kept money and valuables in the basement, so they survived the air strike; I was able to live off that. When it began to run out, I played piano and saxophone wherever I could. People liked me." He smiled. "I had the greatest teacher."

"Yes. You really did. Oh, but Gustave, why… I mean, are you actually writing a book? Or was that a cover? He entrusted you with that letter to me, didn't he?"

"He did. Truth is, he always wanted to find everyone from Phantasma, but he never could, so I sort of picked up the torch. There were questions about the past that I knew only you people could answer, and I did want to see father's dream fulfilled. As for the book…I could write one. I've certainly got a lot of material."

Their eyes drifted to the pile of notes for a while. It was practically enough to write a novel.

"I found you almost by accident, you know," Gustave told her. "I was in the Gypsy Café with Rodger, and as fate would have it, I heard that song about you. Ariel Fleck, he said your name was, and I almost jumped out of my chair. And then, to have Rodger tell me that he passed you every day…to think!"

"To think," Miss Fleck added, with an almost petrified little laugh, "That I told _Mr. Y's son_ that I would shove my crutch up his ass if he didn't get away from me. Good Lord."

"I do have to admit you had me worried. It had been fifteen years, after all, and I wondered if time had perhaps spoiled my dear Miss Raven, made her bitter." He kissed her cheek. "It didn't.

She sniffled. "And you're every bit as darling as you were back then, too."

"Glad to hear it." He looked from the money to the world outside, and his face illuminated with a glee comparable to Mr. Y in a creative fervor. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Raven, we've got a wedding to plan and all your old pals to invite."

All her old pals? Ariel demanded an explanation at once, and Gustave was pleased to tell her that she and Gregory were the last freaks he'd found. Over the years, he'd found and helped the rest. He had all their addresses.

Before the week was out, the apartment was filled with all of Phantasma's freaks, except for Gregory, and of course, the long-deceased Mr. Fleck. Ariel received them all into her arms again: she cried as she kissed Genevieve, shook hands with ancient Mr. Geddes, hugged Aggie-Ann, and went to each old friend. It was like a dream. Together, they all pitched in and prepared for the long-delayed De Rossi wedding.

The only person not in the know was Gregory De Rossi himself!

)

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)

Gregory did not sleep the night before he was to be released. He lay down on his cot for what he knew was going to be the last time and trembled, sheer anticipation making his heart pound, wanting desperately for time to go faster. He was going to hug Ariel again, marry her! It had been years, so many long, anxious, heartbreaking years, but at long last he felt truly alive again, changed, ready to be everything he knew he ought to be. During his final interview, Mr. Whittington told him that Ariel wanted to surprise him, and that he would take him to his apartment to see her. Every minute, she had a surprise; that was just the kind of girl Ariel was.

Morning dawned upon a man ready to leave. Even before the sun had risen, Gregory had dressed meticulously in a suit he'd been saving for years, shaved with utmost care, and agonized over what fifteen years had done to his appearance. Ariel, of course, knew exactly what he looked like, but he couldn't resist mourning the ever-increasing crop of gray hairs. Where had his youth gone? Forty-seven. Over the hill.

Papers were signed, prisoners cheered and slapped his back as he was led out the door to the waiting Mr. Whittington, and as he descended the steps of the prison and walked into Brooklyn again, he breathed deeply. He was free. Then his desire for Ariel leapt up in his breast like a licking flame.

"Take me right to her," he told Mr. Whittington, as though he had been originally planning to stop at the grocery store. "How is she?"

"Beside herself with excitement. Come, this way."

It was a ten-minute walk to the apartment. When Mr. Whittington pushed the door open, he was almost overwrought with anxiety, and when he stepped over the threshold his heart pounded so furiously that he was dizzy, knowing that any moment she would appear, and run into his arms again…

There she was, at the window, where she'd been rocking in a chair, and the sight of her transfixed him. From head to toe, she was dressed in white. The mannequin at Celine's Bridal Salon was empty. The dress and veil of lace now adorned Ariel, who perfected their beauty and infused it with her own lovely spirit, and when she rose, trembling, to her feet, he couldn't move, nor speak.

There was no glass to separate them, nothing between them but air. He couldn't move, but she did. Slowly at first, then faster, and all at once the distance between them was bridged; letting out a cry of joy, Ariel ran to him, and then she was in his arms again, and he was in hers, and her lips were pressing against his neck, and he was kissing her little head. Tears bubbled out of each eye and kept falling; he couldn't help it. Fifteen years of crushing fear lifted its wings and flew away, and the reunited lovers became aware of nothing but the other.

"Oh, Gregory dear," wept Ariel, marveling at the sound of her fiancé's heartbeat, so close to her at last, "You're just as I remember."

With his voice trumpet tossed uselessly over his shoulder, Gregory couldn't speak, nor would he have been able find the right words anyway. At long, long last, they were together, and the world was all a song.

Gustave stepped out of the room, smiling happily, to allow the reunited lovers to have their moment, which lasted for a long time. After hugging, they sat down on the old red couch together, reclining on each other, drying the other's tears, and quietly basking in the wonder of it all.

"Ariel," Gregory was finally able to say, murmuring it softly into her hair, "I dreamed of hugging you like this every night, when I had to sleep all by myself, and now, here we are. Ah, I love you so much."

"I love you too."

At this moment, Gustave re-entered the room with tea on a tray.

Gregory lifted his head and looked at him. "And you, Mr. Whittington," he said gratefully, "Helped this all to come true. Thank you, thank you; I cannot ever repay you."

Ariel exchanged a little look with Gustave, and then patted her soon-to-be-husband. "I think you mean 'Mr. G', dear."

"Eh? His name is Mr. G? Not Whittington?"

Gustave sat beside him. "Forgive me, sir, for concealing my identity from you for all this time." He extended his hand. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Gustave De Chagny, son of Mr. Y."

"_Cosa?"_ cried Gregory, leaping up out of his seat, shocked out of English. _"Come puo essere?"_

"He says: _What? How can this be?"_ translated Ariel serenely.

Gregory's eyes darted wildly from Ariel to Gustave, but settled at last upon the latter. "You…" he sputtered. "That little boy. After all these years. Gustave!"

Ever the interrogator, Gregory spent a solid half-hour demanding specifics and answers, until at last he sunk back beside Ariel, smiling the smile of a thoroughly amazed man.

"Little Gustave, now a grown man," he marveled. "And with a secret identity, just like his father! And the others! All these years!"

"There's more, dear, if you can even believe it." Ariel showed him her hand, with the beloved emerald ring. "Look at what we have for a wedding ring again."

"Your Mama's ring! Ah, Ariel, you got it back from him, how wonderful!"

"That's not even the best part. The two of us have been given a tremendous wedding gift from Mr. Y himself. He'd been intending to give it to us for years…"

Gregory's scream of amazement was loud enough to momentarily halt the outside traffic.

)

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)

That evening, in the presence of God, Gustave, Rodger, Bernice, and all their old friends, Gregory De Rossi and Ariel Fleck were married. The wedding took place in a humble but beautifully decorated little church not far from the Gypsy Café, and the small assembly gathered there to witness the mystical covenant was the happiest anyone ever saw.

"Oh!" Pink-clad Bernice was heard to whisper feelingly. "Look at them, Rog! Isn't this all so romantic?"

But she was sternly hushed, for the vows were being spoken. The emotional couple promised their love and devotion, said 'I do', sealed it with a kiss, and then they went prancing down the aisle as everyone flung rice, flowers, and just about anything they could grab at them, and away everyone went to the Gypsy Café for the reception party.

Bernice and Gustave had outdone themselves with both decorations and food: the interior resembled a charming Italian festival, with big bowls of roses, vines on the pillars, lights on the ceiling, a big white wedding cake, and a whole table of Italian food, the like of which almost made Gregory explode with joy upon seeing it.

"Christ!" he cried, as he looked from his wife to the lasagna, almost unable to process all the joy. "I'm so happy!"

Aggie-Ann, though mellowed with age, could not resist cocking their eyebrows at this breach of propriety.

Gregory noticed. "I am not swearing, Aggie-Ann," he was pleased to clarify. "I am actually addressing the man Himself. Like a prayer, see?"

"Ah do see." Aggie-Ann's faces creased pleasantly. "You shore do got blessins t' count."

"Yes ,yes! I have Ariel, all of you, this money to help us get started. Come! Now we celebrate!"

And celebrate they did. Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi cut their cake and stuffed each other's faces, ate the best food they'd had in years, accepted gifts, and even had a go at learning "The Charleston" from Bernice. The greatest part of the evening, however, was the fact that they were together. The hours fairly flew.

"Eleven o' clock," sighed Ariel, looking like a tired white rose. "Oh, Gregory, this is the best day I've ever had."

He kissed her, but one hand went down her belly and suggestively stroked her thigh. "And now it is night."

Ariel got the message, but could not resist teasing. "Ah, yes. Night," she agreed. "Today was our wedding, but the day is over, and now it is our 'wedding night'. Mmm-hmm. Indeed. And apparently, the customary thing to do is…"

He raised his eyebrows cheekily.

"…is to play chess." Ariel sat down at a nearby table and crossed one leg politely over the other. "So there."

But Gregory would not be put off by teasing. "Ah, chess?" he purred, bringing his cheek up to her own. "Mmm, I capture your Queen? Or better yet, you capture my King?"

A wild giggle shook in her throat, but she kept on. "I hear they do whale-watching now, over in Coney, now there's a fine activity…"

"Whale-watching? You really want the whales watching? _Tu sei una donna interessante."_

At last it was too much for even Ariel to take, and she burrowed into Gregory's jacket, beside herself with exhilaration and lust. "Oh, Gregory dear, you're too much," she breathed. _"Let's get the hell out of here."_

The newlyweds decided to sneakily beat the rice-throwers; only Bernice was made wise to the fact, and she held her tongue, giggling naughtily, as she hustled them out a side door.

"When am I allowed to tell 'em?" she laughed. "They might get worried."

Ariel put her crown of flowers on Bernice's head and kissed her. "When we're good and gone, Bernie. Good night!"

Bernice patted her new crown in delighted surprise. "Good night!" she bubbled.

Before a soul could even notice that they'd gone, Ariel and Gregory were heading down 5th Avenue in a cab, cackling over their brilliant escape and warming each other up with all the kisses they had missed for fifteen years. By the time they arrived at the hotel, it had progressed to something of a battle; the driver might have complained, but as they were obviously newlyweds, he held his tongue, chuckling, and was ultimately rewarded with a fine tip.

In they went, and as fate would have it, the old black man who had written "Long Black Veil" was sitting in the lobby with a coffee. He looked up from his paper and smiled at the lovely bride, but did not recognize her as the crazy Miss Fleck from his song.

"We 'ave come to check in," Gregory told the desk clerk.

"Yes, sir. The reservation is under what name?"

Ariel piped up first. "Gregory De Rossi and Ariel Fleck…I mean De Rossi!" She laughed. "Oh my, that'll take some getting used to!"

"I'll fetch the key," said the clerk, and went into a back-room.

The old black man jumped a bit in surprise. Ariel Fleck? It couldn't be. Why, she had been a mess not more than a month ago, drinking and smoking, wandering about in a black veil, and now…it was white, trailing behind her in swirls of lace. She was a bride!

"Is that really you indeed, Miz A-E-riel?" he asked in disbelief, unable to hold his tongue.

She blinked in surprise and met his eye. "I should think so. Wait. You're…that man who wrote that song about me."

Gregory frowned. "Eh?"

"It was a lovely song, dear, don't get flustered." Ariel approached the songwriter in all her white finery, smiled, and put her long white veil into his hands. "And I shall expect you to write a sequel song."

The clerk returned with the key to the De Rossi bridal suite, and so no more was said. Away the bride and groom went, hand in hand, leaving the old black man speechless, staring at the lace draped in his hands.

Bernice was just admitting their escape to the groaning partygoers as Gregory scooped his beautiful Ariel up in his arms, carried her through their door, and kicked it shut.

)

(

)

Just as a starving soul finds any little thing sweet, so Ariel and Gregory found even the slightest feeling of skin touching skin to be ineffably divine, and after their marriage was duly consummated they lay against each other, warm and amazed. Fifteen years of loneliness were over. They had lost so much time, but now they would begin to make it up.

Ariel wiped her tears away and nuzzled into the warmth of her husband's chest. Making love always made her emotional; she couldn't help it. "I'm so very happy, dear," she murmured.

With his voice trumpet on the desk, Gregory couldn't speak, but he ran his fingers through his wife's little head of curls and let his touches tell her of his happiness.

Joy lay in store for them, but with sorrow enough to remind them to cherish it. In the days ahead, they would visit Alf, Polly, and Baby's grave, for Ariel wanted to lay her bridal bouquet on it. In Halifax there was the shared grave of Giovanni and Maria. There would be wars, depressions, uncertain times, but the joy would come in rich, wonderful blossoms, like roses among thorns. There would be the babies, at whose birth their father would always cry, there would be the grandchildren, there would be Gustave, and all their friends, and for a good many years, Gregory and Ariel would have each other.

"We called it the City of Wonders back then," Ariel continued to muse, her husband's touches beginning to make her giddy with pleasure again, "But just us, here… I think it is even better."

My City of Wonders,(Gregory mouthed silently, as he had done so many times, so long ago) is wherever you are, _mia __bella signora__._

)

(

)

By the way, the old black man, thoroughly inspired, did see fit to write a sequel to "Long Black Veil". Whether Ariel ultimately did receive royalties for it the world may never know, but the lyrics were undoubtedly an improvement. There are few things as charming as a happy ending, and even before the last grain of the De Rossi wedding rice was swept away, the song made its debut, to a great sensation.

_And she walks these streets in a long white ve-e-e-eil _

_Dressed like a queen from some fairyta-a-ale_

_Singin' God only knows._

_God only sees. _

_There's so much left for me-e-e-e._

**The End**

FINAL NOTES FROM YOUR EXHAUSTED AUTHORESS

A tremendous thank you to all who have read, supported, and reviewed this whopper of a story (200k words, peeps!) is due. Thank you! :D

I sort of alluded to the fact that Ariel and Gregory have children. In case you're curious, they ultimately have three. The first two are twins: Vivienne Regina and Alfred Vittorio, and the last is a girl called Stella Ann. Ariel even lives to see a great-granddaughter who is also named Ariel.

There's a cutesy wedding illustration over at my deviant art (littlelivewire), if you want to have a look-sie.

In the days ahead, I'll likely put out a one-shot called "Borrowed Dress" that I wrote a year ago, while concocting this plot. It was an element of the (very different) story that was ultimately dropped, a rather dark "romantic" scene involving Ariel and Mr. Y.

THANKS AGAIN!


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